Runner

I like how you run on the bending bikeway:
Erect, sure-footed, lean, and lost
In concentration, your pace never slacking,
Your heart pitter-patting in synch with the beat of
An earbud tune.
I spot you from the overpass
And watch;
Though lame and envious of those
With cadence unimpaired, who are yet agile,
Loose-limbed, lively, and unencumbered
By the shackles of aging,
I applaud.
Never was I swift or athletic,
But I recall the fall of my feet
As I plugged along a shady street,
Enthralled by the joys of autonomous motion,
No wheels, no hard limits--I could cut through woodlands
If I chose--
My sweat an asperges, a holy sprinkling.
How I miss that virtuous sacrament!
Now I rely on vicarious oglings--
Of you, running angel, and your precious peers--
To carry me onwards. On shoulders I ride;
As you lope across valleys and hilltops, I glide.