Four miles

To call this pace “plodding” would

be a horrific insult to plods

Even as I climb the rising asphalt hide

of this hill —

In my de-oxygenated head I can channel

The tribal chief of the plods, appoplectic

At a similie so rude and base.

Black birds witness my efforts

Strafing through the cloud-straked blue.

(Or, are those furry midnight spots

That skim my eyes?)

My jagged strides smooth, finally

At the first mile mark

As the old leather lacing my joints

Supples up, creasing with the unceasing thuds

Of my rough tread.

I am fervant in my silent swearing

To spur my amnesiac thews:

Draw from their bunching fiber some

High school track practice memory

Of habit, of stance, of tempo

That might prove beneficial.

(The birds are real

Creaking their onyx laughter

As I keep plugging past)

In a sweat-blink moment

Fifteen minutes up the road

Ejected from the runner’s fugue

I try to thumb to the right tune

So as to fall again

Into the alpha-wave-basin

Of the ground-pounding now.

A head-wind presses my chest

As I gulp the azure air, my face flaming.

The crows feather-hop nearby:

Hunin, Munin, behold my ugly strides.

Valhalla can wait.

I’ll catch up.