Alright

Be it therapy
Or be it intoxication,
I don’t know,
But my need to connect things
Gets out of control sometimes.
Each run, each class, each experience
Always seems to have a connection
To something else.

It’s a little ridiculous,
I’ll admit.

Take a run through the slice,
Not the soft drink that my old basketball friend
And a one-time professional player,
Used to mix with his popular Irish stout
To make one or the other go down easier
Which has nothing to do with the bar,
Literally and figuratively around the corner
From my dorm,
No, slice, slushy-ice,
Left on the roads to make for another fake emergency
Causing a little more of our collective human soul
To be sapped
Much in the same way
Cutting Guinness with carbonated sugar water
Steals from the rooster fries, aka Rocky Mountain Oysters,
Balls, Testicles, okay, got it?
No, slice, the stuff we should be tempting and taunting
Because we are meant to survive and to challenge comfort
Even if it means going slowly and complaining the whole way.

Granted, there’s a lot there,
And it’s all ridiculous.

Necessary, too.

Necessary, because sometimes llamas push and pull,
Dogs bark too loudly under the spot of headlights,
And only God knows what happens with chickens in the U
After parties where the consumption goes beyond acting
“Your age and not your shoe size.”
The lesson being that getting older does not have to mean
Adolescence or the college years resurface
Because restraint and maturity are okay,
Just so long as the senior years don’t restrict the development
Of marginal Philadelphia up and coming (llamas?) suburban cities.

You see, running should be fun,
Toiling away
Under the guise of athletic improvement
Might be the deal for some, and I understand,
Why run if you’re not getting better at something,
Especially in the crap that Mother Nature left this morning,
Why can’t she make up her mind,
Snow or rain, not both.
I’ve come to think that the running is more than physical,
The chuckleheads (typed with affection) who keep me going
Might be surprised to know
That my running is about more than the time or distance,
It’s about the connections,
The observations, like why do certain cultures
Run in the fast lane on the track,
But go slowly,
I’m not trying to start a new hashtag thing,
Because as a middle-aged white guy, I am a stereotype, too…

Nope, running brings together all sorts,
Finance, mechanics, security, so many different professions
Are in our group,
That it’s amazing.
We even have a blueberry coat wearing triathlete,
A former spin teaching water polo playing fitness bain of lifeguards,
And me, a guy drawing energy from them all
To make sure that ice, snow, rain, hills, mud, and mostly me
Don’t become an excuse
To become a two-hour delay,
Living in fear,
Afraid of struggle
Who would rather sit life out
Instead of trying battle ropes for the first time.

Ah, the connections,
Vape on those for a while,
Afterwards, destroy the lane markers,
They are nothing but bars stretched across
Open water to make like easier
For some territorial mofo
Who doesn’t have to worry about legs that sink,
Contact lists that get shredded in the laundry,
Or hydroponic farming neighbors.

It was a good one this morning,
Thanks.

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