Just get out and run you a mile.
That possibility hangs heavy
over a quiet street and a flyover, blue tarpaulin
draped above tin shades on the tar banks.
The morning is mist, the era of road repair,
orthogonal routes to far-flung stops;
the city’s genial breed of transport
softly collapsing on pilfered ground.
Not to startle them, tiptoeing —
with vim, without vim —
a motion made to seem like stillness.
Rest, arrested. Breathe.
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