Poem

I never lived for the sidelines, never wished for the cheers and cries at six in the morning when my life was the only one running boom-clap along the spectators of empty windows and the sun rays scattering daze in the tracks I left in the sand.

Maybe it was the crying of the road and the home I left behind.

I crave the feel of lying in that sunshine as the ocean’s breath lapped at my sneakers when I knew a mile I lost count of was waves behind me, splashing boom-clap on the shore. Time was losing but I moved choosing my path with rubber soles slapping on the pavement, soul laughing with sweat pouring down my face.

Maybe it was the adrenaline rush of the one-woman race.    

I raced the burned cigarettes in the gutter and paced myself one step, boom-clap, after the other, promised myself just another hundred yards but it’s impossible to measure when the road runs into the Atlantic, even though I started drowning with my first baby steps. I could be running to heaven and I’d never move an inch.

Maybe it was the fire of hell behind me.

I was the only one on the sidewalks of Route 30, hiding in night’s shadows and muscles hurting, thighs burning. I ran down the R5 and let the SEPTA chase me, boom-clap down the ringing train tracks.

Maybe it was the slamming door, the starting gun.

I was fifty degrees cold covered by a blanket of clouds in the sky, lying to myself every footstep that everything was fine and the ringing in my ears and pounding in my head was good for me. I lied when I clocked milestones because I let myself run boom-clap loud farther than ever should have sounded right. I pleaded with myself running from nightmares I couldn't fight.

Maybe it was the voices I couldn't hear, the people who I never wanted to cheer while I stayed clear of everyone else on the jogging path I had to beat, but maybe it was that chasing defeat.