At a path by the river
clever threads wick away his sweat
intwothreefour
outtwothreefour
quick feet, quiet feet
finishing
slurping autumn's air
"better than sex" he says when
these hard-earned drugs
these satisfied drugs
his body's own drugs
smugly rush and flood his blood
Now
formless
book-stuffed rucksack stuck
on his shoulder
tugs hard back
trips and tumbles him ahead
plumeting, though the road is flat
his lungs make do with stale and aged breath
seems he hasn't exhaled or exhaled since he saw he'd overslept
angular buckle bores into ribs
trousers bunch at buttocks
boxer shorts torture twist constrict
An athlete when prepared to be
today
he runs the run of one who hadn't expected to run
