Ask me about running?
There’s this one memory.
Early on a Sunday morning,
the aroma of hickory-smoked bacon
and blueberry pancakes hanging in the air,
– near Bush Park –
We’d go cruising past a bright white church,
well-dressed congregants filing in,
maybe we’re coasting
at seven minutes per mile.
A couple hours later.
we’d blast back past
at six minutes per.
Building to the crescendo
make-fun-of-each-other finishing kick.
Same folks would be filing out of church.
Some looked at us
in incredulous wonderment.
We looked back at them
the same way.
How could anybody
sit still that long?