Running Total

Marathoner math
18 miles: Halfway there
8.2 to go

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Crazy Talk

Don Quixote earned his fame
Through windmill jousts and chasing sheep
And in the end he lent his name
To they who doomed ideals would keep

His exploits caused his kin some sadness
And dismayed the peasant friend
Who squired him throughout his madness
Shepherding him at the end

Cervantes’ knight was overawed
By life; his squire dim but true
Between them, I prefer the flawed,
Insane perspective of D.Q.

Madness in pursuit of beauty–
Extrañeza heroico
Eclipses humble faith and duty?
I’m ashamed to say, it’s so.

Beep-Beep!

Some days I’m the Road Runner, some, Wile E.
On still others, that hole in the canyon is me.
On occasion (more frequently as I grow older),
My shadow transforms to the shape of a boulder.
I thought it might help to just hide in my house,
Draw the curtains, and do all my shopping by mouse,
But it didn’t. (I’m blaming those cookies that track me
On WWW Acme.)

Small Talk

I wish I had your soft, thick head.
Of hair, I mean. Forget I said
That thing about how thick your head is.
Hair! Know what my one regret is?
I don’t own a time machine.
Your hair looks nice! I’ll bet it’s clean.
I mean, it looks clean over there.
It’s hard to see behind your glare–
The glare–from those French doors behind you.
Light’s so bright it might could blind you!
No, I’m fine. Your head is blocking
Out the sun– Hey, I’m done talking!

A River In Egypt (And Points South)

My dog is older than she was
And thinks about the things she does
Before she does them; once upon
A time, ere thoughts arrived, she’d gone

I took a run the other day
And reminisced about the way
That she and I had cruised that trail
When stronger winds still filled her sail

I tell myself (and she concurs)
The choice to stay behind is hers
These days a run’s more work than lark
She’d rather wander in the park

She doesn’t eat the way she did
But that’s okay. She’s not a kid–
Or pup–whatever dogs are called
When they’re still tiny, blind and bald

I get it. Sure, she’s growing…up
She maybe needs a dribble cup
And likes her doggy treats size small
And chases just the once-thrown ball

But squirrels still respect a growl
Issued from a drooly jowl
They chatter at her–well offstage–
And never think about her age

We’ll sit together, she and I
And watch the afternoon go by
And later–maybe–take a jog
A boy and his immortal dog

Post-Marathon Calendar

First day after: Slightly sore,
But braced to face much greater later.
Second day: Shop online store
To price in-home de-escalator.
Third day after: Pain recedes–
Embrace it (if you’re into Zen).
Fourth day after: Changing speeds
On course is possible again.
Fifth and sixth days: S. quo ante.
One week out: Run short and fast.
Two weeks out, your legs say, “Can’t we
Go long, please? We can?!? At last!!”