Tonight I ran, and cursed this aging frame
each mile run cursing harder than the last
each breath more labored, every pace the same
and sorry degradation, milestones passed
chained to my ankles. Streetlit sky a sieve,
the sodden city noise damping my ears,
I ran halting, frustrated, tentative.
Each draught of burning lung betrayed my years.
What point is there to this? This city but
a straitjacket, a hundred yards of gauze
I’ve wrapped me in, like xylocaine for thought
that swells uncomfortably against what was.

1. 
   Rebecca Swan 2009 12 15 at 9:29:07 am

   I think I know what you mean. I wrote this last summer:

   Juxtaposition

   Ragged leaves hanging limp in the heat

   Hole-y and spotted against the steely sky

   The delicate shades of living green

   Dark green, light green, bright green, bless my eyes

   Relieving the pain of metal and pavement

   Wafting a hint of oxygen my way

   as they tremble in a passing breeze . . . .. . . . swan . . . .

2. 
   RobG 2009 12 15 at 6:47:01 pm

   Wanker. Just wait until a knee gives out. If I could write poetry (or even write, period) you’d be in tears. I dream of “halting, frustrated, tentative”.

   Still. Nice.