runner

i am not a runner.

my legs are long: i have the legs of a runner --

or i could. i do not.

my legs move stiffly, slowly, indeterminately,

through cities, across continents, over endless seas,

my feet stuck in the sand.

maybe if i could run, i would run, i would --

i would. i would run like a deer, a fox,

whatever could run, i would. to the colors of africa,

the deserts of peru, the subways of uzbekistan,

i would run.

but my feet are stuck in quicksand, sucking me under,

and hands reach out to me, searching for me;

i should have been a runner, feeling the topography under my toes,

but the hands are quicksand too, i stare, i sink,

until even the hands are over my eyes.