Jogging Before Dawn

To my left, an old man practices tai-chi,
feet apart, body bending backwards,
wrinkled arms stretching slowly
to an arc, poised, cradling the air.

Extending fingers for the tip of my shoes,
I pull taut my calves, counting to ten.
Blood rushes to my head as I gape
at the void deck. A marble table protrudes
from the top, fluorescent lamps fixed below,
framed upside-down between my knees.
In the carpark, an engine shudders and coughs.
Headlights flash in the dark, startling the old man.

I run. Sole of my shoes pushing concrete,
the world bounces: rain-trees are bobbing
by the pavement, dropping dew. A breeze
nudges the leaves, hurtling and tumbling,
edges scraping tar. Here, every day,
by the bus-stop, schoolchildren yawn
and wait. A brown rat emerges
from the shrubbery, sniffs at the sound
of my pacing, and dashes across my path.

With every step the sky swells with light.
On the ground a shadow lengthens,
growing sharper, piercing my feet
as each shoe touches ground.
More and more cars overtake me,
people have risen, there is another day
at the office. Colleagues, bills,
the mortgage on my home,
they dawn upon me,
and everyday I race the impending sunrise,
my breath rejecting the morning,
my legs pumping, pumping, pumping.