I take my hair when I go jogging; it enjoys
a streaming run in ways I didn’t expect; it blows
romantically in the wind and fluffs itself
to keep my scalp warm. My head goes with it
and its curls. Control freak head can’t shout
orders at the curls and be obeyed, nor boss
my sense of balance – another running friend,
useful when underfoot gets rough.
Into the first mile and my breath starts gasping.
Head tells it to curb its fuss. This
issue puffed between them on our first outing,
three weeks ago. Childish! In twenty days
they should have it out of earshot if not put away.
Natch, I take my running clothes and
my sense of fashion. Head and I agree it matters
to look the part, so no other runners
are better dressed. That way I leave
Envy at home, stacked indoors with Must-have.
Into the park, off I start; I carry baggage of stuff, some
so heavy sweat complains, so I dump
it by the path worn for joggers in the grass
to gather back as I amble home. No one
steals it – it’s hidden where no one can.
E. A. M. Harris has been writing for some years and several of her poems and stories have appeared in print and online magazines and anthologies. She blogs at http://eamharris.com/ and tweets as E A M Harris @Eah1E.