Running Out of Space (a poem for daydreamers, astrophysicists and runner's high junkies)

Within the jurisdiction of the Atlantic’s salty breezes

the smooth meandering road

vanishes

gobbled up

consumed by expensive running shoes

dissolving into glare.

I can see to the subatomic level

            I am intimately acquainted with the quasars

            erupting from each tiny aperture

            of the blacktop galaxy.

           

Following the yellow line

I could run this walk this bike this

on my hands and knees crawl this from sea to sea

Oh infinite road

I utter

shout

pant

proclaim clichés in your honor.

Or what if this shady curve

painted with gently dancing silhouettes

of scrubby crooked pines

is the whole road

the entire multiverse

or whatever they are calling it now?

I’d be okay with that

and can’t help wondering

whether we are naive

to expect another road around the bend

some infinite intersecting labyrinth

of highways …

It is more likely

that I am merely riding this piece of asphalt

like a treadmill in empty space

or at least it feels that way

as I stop for water.

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