Runners "low"
Tying my shoes ($$) for my morning run,
I think about quitting, I wish it were done.
Perhaps if I run at least a mile each way,
I won’t have to cry at what the scales say.
My breath comes in gasps, I look a freight,
The people I pass must laugh at my plight.
I would love to feel the wind in my face,
To do that though, I’d have to pick up the pace.
A few strides taken, my back starts to ache,
My joints are stiff, damn, give me a break.
Where is the euphoria I’m supposed to feel?
The “runners high” they say is part of the deal.
It never gets easier, a form of torture each time…
But hearing “way to go grandma!” is really sublime.
Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2009
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