The Lone Runner

her feet against the inky rubber track: slap twap, slap twap—,

bum knee!

her braid, driving the cadence home

between her shoulder blades: swip tip, swip tip.

The lone runner—

loogie in the bushes

as she goes ‘round and ‘round

not stopping for

the clock—, or God—, or anything.

The lone runner—

athletic shorts riding up her thighs,

exposing the soft pale underside

to the night above.

Crack! The lights go out. Track closed.

But she runs on.

Slap twap, slap twap—,

Swip tip, swip tip—,

Not stopping for the clock—,

Or God—,

Or anything—