My alarm shrieks

and almost robotically

my arms and legs

remove the covers

and put me on my feet.

 

I fumble across my

squeaky bedroom floor,

reaching blindly into

the darkness

until I feel the

familiar switch,

and then silence.

            Except for the sprinklers

            outside my window.

 

My hand traces the boards

on the wall until

“click;”

unexpected brightness

fills my room.

 

I scan the floor,

find my worn tennis shoes,

and pound the dirt from

yesterday out of them.

Then I lace those

trusty shoes up,

swiftly grab my iPod

and slide it into

my arm band,

secure my headphones

and head down the stairs,

failing miserably to make

little noise.

 

I swing the outside door

closed until I hear the

reassuring “click” that it’s shut.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The long summer grass

is damp

and needs to be mowed,

and someone didn’t shut the gate yesterday.

I close it behind me,

then wait until I reach the

rocky dirt road

to hit “play” on my iPod.

 

The music picks me up

and I ease into my run,

taking a deep breath,

happy to be outside

in the fresh morning air.

 

Then

I lose

            my step.

Reflex throws my hands

                                    out in front of me

            to brace myself.

But soon blood covers them

and a stinging sensation

springs forth from my knee.

 

Sitting on the lonely,

dirt road,

I look at my knee

and there’s no question;

it’s going to be an ugly scar.