On the Couch

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Stuck – softness of oversized pillows –
stained with six years of children taking over the house
Saturday, and the only thing
I am enjoying about the sun outside,
is the heat eeeking through the window.
I must move.
Move,
pace to be found in the way I used to run
Run, track under my feet
dirt under my cleats
sweat just beginning on my brow.

Eighteen years later, and the only vestige left of
My runner self is the shin splints I get when
I spend too much time shopping-
There is nothing easy about inspiration for movement-
I am no Nike commercial,
There is no Just Do It in me.

Instead there is a quiet want of a better me
of a need to be strong
and not just in some, you’re so tough
you always make it through,
type way,
but instead, in a,
you can leap tall buildings,
you can lift cars
you can be something that looks like some conception
of a super hero, front cover
of triathlon magazine.

And it’s not even that I want to win,
just finish,
get off the couch,
find myself  stronger
catch up to that earlier vestige of myself.

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