Poem: Claypit Pond at Twilight

It must be bad luck to run intervals on a Monday
Because here I am, cruising the suburbs one late
August afternoon, with no place to do a workout.

I drive to one track -- no good -- the lanes are blocked
with coolers of Gatorade, and throngs of kids in pads
wonder what it will take to make the football team.

I drive to another; they've just painted the lanes.
"Hey buddy, you can't run here!" (It looks very nice,
like a fancy cake lying safe and tempting behind a glass.)

Finally, I end up at Claypit Pond where most of Belmont
is walking the dog, or pushing the stroller, or at band
practice (the trombones have taken a spot on the path).

I jog around to estimate the distance - about 1K.
I jog some more to get loose, and find my footing.
I do a few strides, reset the watch, take off my shirt.

I run the first interval, past the dogs, strollers,
a couple sitting on a bench, the trombones, everyone.
Quick enough, but under control. And 90 seconds to enjoy it.

Then a second interval. Then a third. Am I worrying
The dogs? Am I disturbing the loving couple? Startling
the jogger with the headphones? Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Then a fourth, Then a fifth. The couple left after four.
The dogs have gone home. The trombones have wandered
off to join the rest of the band, I guess. Now it's just me

And a million small black gnats rising from the pond
Like a mist, sticking to my wet skin. I barely notice,
Thinking about this last interval and making it good.

And when it gets hard (so soon, on the last one),
I talk myself through it step by step. Keep the rhythm,
Don't get excited. Turn over. Don't float. Hold your form.

Cooling down, I realize it's unlikely I'll be back any time soon.
That's ok. I'll leave the dogs of Belmont to enjoy the pond
Each night, every night for the rest of their lives.