Running

[I like the metaphor in the bottom stanzas. Maybe I'll actually do something with that...]

Seriously?
Seriously?
You know,
I think you exist to disappoint me.
And you do it so well--you make me even turn my annoyance inward
because of how, in the end, I really do give a shit.
I don't think I would care if there were
nothing
else for me to care about, if I had something to occupy my seconds
other than weeks of blurred uncertainty and ticking clocks and glossy advertisements.

I am ready to race,
but I've been stuck behind gates like a penned-up racehorse
just staring at the track
when I want to show everyone watching--
show myself--
that I can be faster than any of them.

Imagine the moment before the gunshot
stretched out
into a day, a week, a month,
almost a year, now, with nothing but
the silence of the waiting thinning the atmosphere.

But, in the air, in the wind that's stirring around my pacing feet,
lifting though the stagnation, beginning a change,
I can feel that this is the run of a lifetime--
in the slam of that bullet I can feel that
this will be something good.