35° F, clear, calm.
Body parts functioning, check.
Smartphone in breast pocket, check.
ID building pass, check.
Nine minutes to first morning train, check.
I step out the door, insert key, turn, and lock the door. There’s a clop clop clop of footsteps on the street. I turn to see Runner. Male, wearing a Miner’s headlamp, his beam illuminating the road.
2003. That’s you. Up, pre dawn: 5 miles Tuesday. 7 miles Wednesday. 4 miles Friday. Hot shower. Off to work.
2017. Walking. A Walker. And walking cross-town on 48th pulsing with Oliver:
But what is it then that sits in my heart,
that breathes so quietly, and without lungs—
that is here, here in this world, and yet not here?