RUNNING

What if I will never run again?
Run: sprint, leap, zoom.

You -- born a cripple.
I do not envy you, but
you need not face this question.
For you, it has always been so.

I was the fast one.
In summer, the breeze tickled
the hair on my shoulder,
though the day was
perfectly still.

You as well: 
your body has grown large.
You are comfortable with this.
You chose when to give up on
quickness, lightness of foot.

I did not.  I cannot.
Inside, I am an Olympian.
I outrun foxes.
Fast is good.
"Faster than" is better.

And you!  
You aged so gracefully. 
You faced this question but
you made it look easy.
One day you retired.
No comebacks.

What about me?
I could become a fitness geezer.
Wiry.  Smug.  Obsessed.
A murderer would find me
surprisingly hard to kill.
A friend would find me
surprisingly hard to like.

No, I will not do what it takes
to stay one step ahead of the foxes.
I will wish I had.
Later, I will begin to accept 
what you have known for years.
I will become what I appear to be.
And to see me running still,
you will need vision uncommonly deep.