Feet barely lifting, yet pounding the trail
He runs like the park’s percussion,
A metronome moving toward me.
He doesn’t run fast.
His neon wind suit propels him.
Laboured breathing
And a heavy stomach, a weight to carry
Slow him down.
Old running shoes
Reminiscent of an athletic past
Wispy grey strands—just a handful of hair--
Soberly recount a life led
Day by day
As he and I cross paths
I always take a breath
Wishing on sleeping wishing stars
He’ll make it home.
Less like a gazelle with each passing day,
He is not a friend,
But a friendly stranger.
My running companion
If only for a moment.