You slide your feet into your shoes.
The ones with the ID badge.
Just in case.
Your dog is a shadow.
He herds you down the stairs.
As far as he knows, he’s going with.
You have to tell him it’s too hot.
They’re words he won't understand.
His tail wag tells you that.
But he’s as black as the pavement.
His body doesn’t regulate like yours.
You leave him behind.
The first half mile is heavy breathing
And heavy feet.
Should it be this hard?
Eventually you settle in.
It always takes two miles.
Even on 3-mile days, which feels unfair.
Your calves start to burn.
You have regrets.
Mostly of moving to a neighborhood with “hill" in the name.
The blisters begin forming at the ends of your toes.
You power through the pain.
It’s impossible to forget you’re alive.
You could run this route with your eyes closed.
But it always offers a new feeling.
I guess I’ll see how it differs tomorrow.