The Running Man
The running man is drenched in sweat
as she flies by in her Corvette,
the music's loud, the bass turned high,
he feels the thrum as she flies by.
He winces at her green Corvette,
she reaches for a cigarette,
he slows his pace down to a walk,
she reaches for her phone to talk.
When he gets home he eats some fruit,
she figures what she eats is moot,
she wants to die both strong and bold,
he hopes and prays that he'll grow old.
He scrimps and saves most every dime,
she splurged and found it most sublime,
in to his work, his life he hurled,
she danced on tip-toes 'round the world.
They both grew old, as it turns out,
she still dances, he has gout,
her home is filled with little treasures,
his house is stark, each foot step measured.
Each treasure brings a memory
of trips she took by land and sea,
his house is plain, with bare wood planks,
but he's got money in the bank.
She takes in strays, both dogs and cats,
he takes his pants in, losing fat,
she feeds the lake fish, feeds the birds,
he finds talking a waste of words.
She dies laughing, bells on her toes,
never caring about money woes,
he enters a fine nursing home,
and there he withers, all alone.
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2008
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