I ran until the road split and my heart sank

Into my feet 

But i could not be left

Defeated

 

No time to stop.

Stuck with the squadron

In the front of the line

Where they stick all the slow runners.

 

No time for slow

Or watching paint dry

Or waiting for the drip of a dry well

No time for thirsty.

 

In my summer sweats on winter grounds

I wasn’t prepared for the cold

Icy stares of fellow soldiers around me

Telling me I’m not worthy.

 

But it don’t matter 

Because in the end

I ran until I was heated

 

I ran until I tasted blood

Rushing from my headspace

Pumping from my heart

 

Praying for the finish 

Praying for the whistle.

Praying for Uncle Sam to set me free.

 

I wrote this poem on the spot for Gil Sotu’s Poetry Workshop on Zoom,