It's Still Life

And Run

Same time,
every day.
She runs.
I’m finishing the breakfast dishes,
up to my wrists in hot soapy water,
and there she goes,
she’s a shot of sun.
Her red hair’s often a shapeless flame,
but today it’s tied up in a brass knot –
and she runs.
I’d love to run that like,
every movement is scripted,
tireless justification of feet.
Mile after mile.
I rinse the last dish,
turn off the tap,
and the dog wakes up,
scratches at her ear like
a flea-racked squirrel.
The dog and I, we both wish
we could run
like that girl,
maybe carry the colours
of some triumphal memory.
And run.

for dVerse Poets, Walt’s “Character Study” prompt