The Runner

The Runner

While I am running, the world goes on around me.
The cops chasing the stoned teens.
The woman yelling at the kid about homework.
The man driving and talking on the phone.
The girls taking pictures.
Power tools whining in a garage.
A dog barking.

While I am running, my world stops.
I am one with a fine orange cat;
seated like a queen on a white car.
One with a woman frozen on a bench;
hunched over a book.
The sun frozen in the sky.
The sky a benign infinite blue;
No birds, no clouds mar the smooth blue surface.

While I am running, I don’t know anything.
I ignore my ego’s trafficking in grievances and guilt;
Its offerings of idle wishes;
Its bartering in dreams of sickness and disaster.
Running, I release tormenting fantasies of hell on earth.

While I am running, there is nothing else.
I am a void to the world, a nullity.
I am the worthless, the not living up.
I am the withdrawn, not special.
A runner, a piece of landscape, a mind unoccupied.
Silent, anonymous, free.