T H E    P O E T R Y    O F    D I S T A N C E    R U N N I N G
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The Low Run

It’s a quiet street
    where the run begins,
        where weeds and grass

inhabit the cracks.
    Look down.
        Look down for the Creeping Charlie

tattooed on the neighbor’s lawn,
    for the half-rotten walnuts
        that blemish the turf.

Look down now
    for the rash of sand and gravel
        where once

you stumbled and bled.
    (Imagine your feet
        on that uneven ground

as a phrenologist’s hands
    examining a lumpy skull.)
        It’s a low landscape

that supports your daily dash,
    where crabgrass and chicory
        and goldenrod thrive

and roadsides
    wear wild mustard.
        (Imagine nature

making our leaders small for a spell,
    scant
        as the hapless ants

under our shoes.)
    Look down,
        live close to the ground

as you skim
    over the skin
        of this world.

© 2006 by Brian Powers

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