On the Circuit
When I'm running in bleak-white afternoon,
sweat glowing on my chest,
love-handles flopping over my shorts,
I remember Moon Pies.
Up the steep hill next to a dairy field,
pickup trucks screaming past,
gusts flapping against my back,
I think of peaceful moments with chocolate and tea.
It's those quiet times in the office,
vending machine lunches at my desk,
three-for-a-dollar peanut-butter bars,
boxes of crullers with soda,
that bring me here;
it's the cinnamon buns, choco-cookies,
peanut brittle, chips, and beer.
Yesterday, my boss said,
"A journey of a thousand laps
begins with a single donut,"
and we laughed over our midday meal
of three pastries each.
But now I run this ribbon of road,
sprinting, fast and fat,
up the winding, white line to my door
past my neighbors, who shake their heads
and laugh at the paradox
of girth and speed.
Then it's collapse in the shower,
satisfied by penance, and later,
I lounge late-night in my comfy chair
staring glassy-eyed at the computer,
slice of pizza in one hand, beer in another,
memory of the circuit behind me,
another thousand laps to go.
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