Mid-June. Don’t judge.

The list of ways to better
myself always melts off
the tongue: be grateful, eat
carrots, exercise. Period.

Used to be I ran for courtship
but now I think how settled I sound,
gliding over the sidewalk’s grass clippings,
a product of suburban domestication.

Stones jangle in my stomach
as they do at the start
of each new thing: I’m leaving
this city, finally– magenta

in the sunset peeking out
from possible storm clouds.

It rained earlier. And at the end
of my route I’ll be a lake
packing for the move. Boxes

to open later– memories
of transformation, every
day running from
the younger self to now.

 

(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)