When I was younger I used to run.
I was raised on a ranch in the central valley
My father worked during the week
And grew Santa Rosa plums on the weekend
While my mom cleaned the house
And raised my sister and I
And I, when I was younger, would run.

Disked by my father once a month
The dirt on the ranch was soft and fine
Reminiscent of the sand on the beach
And when my feet pushed off on the soil
They would sink in deep
Like a baker's hands while kneading dough
Or a fox into the woods while hunted
Deep into the soil my feet would sink
As I ran when I was younger.

Now when I run, I run in the city
Asphalt and concrete greet my feet
As I run along the street in the city.
Pounding hard the street meets my feet
Like the bass from my car speakers
Me and others-
of the pain of aging.
And instead of sinking in to the depths of life
I am bouncing aimlessly, painfully and pointlessly
Off the one way street of civilization.
And I, I am older now, no longer run.
--Gregory P., Adult