Flying
I run slow.
Real slow.
No, I mean it.
The expert joggers in their tank tops, with their phones strapped to their arms, ignore me, embarrassed;
The power walkers speed up to overtake me—
(I am at a just annoying pace)
But I would rather jog slowly
Than walk so quickly the pavement is bruised.
There is something about the rhythm of running (on a good day)—
And on the bad days a good tiredness at least—
But on a good day, a really good day, there is that moment
That midstride difference between walking and running when both feet are in the air for an instant—