three miles in

three miles in
and something has already begun to change.
for one, I am resisting the urge to race,
beat my own imagined time, surpass the mother fitting in laps
between feedings of her baby boy, show my still-young stride
to the soccer team practicing before supper.

three miles in
and I have already stopped caring how long it takes
to make the rotations on the outside lane,
and why the old guy with the knee brace is still in front,
or how my shorts, riding high on my legs, bare such a lack
of good and proper muscle.

three miles in
and I have forgotten what it is I'm here for,
lost in the rhythm threading through earphones,
the sweat balancing on shoulder blades, my forehead,
the friction of my thighs, the collision of foot
on asphalt, foot on asphalt, again and again and again.

three miles in
and my body is alone at last,
free of all its delicate words and precious sentences,
lunging forward—simply, hungrily—
into the next gulp of hot and heavy air.