I used to do eight-minute miles, but now
these running shoes seem like an albatross
around my neck I should but cannot toss.
My joints and muscles don’t remember how
my legs like wings once flew. It’s not that I’m
reliving glory days. I had at most
too few, no high school records I could boast
about, no geezer’s story of his prime.
Although accepting that I’m getting old,
I take a weekly jog away from town
so no one sees me shuffling like a clown
or wheezing like I caught a wicked cold.
I’ll never run another marathon,
but with endorphin’s kick I carry on.