On Mondays I run the longest, even when it rains,
measuring distance with the wooden posts that
hide among the trees - thick as the stumps they once were,
dull splinters returned home.
Soon, the mile markers will become subway posts.
What will it mean to return home again,
to my built-up city, no longer touched?
An apartment grown dusty, the milk
in the fridge unopened - still good?
To be good again. To be good still.
The first thing to do is run.
I have never run in New York City.
Useless hands, but haptic legs -
even with nothing else, this.
I will find myself on the grates,
craving green but catching concrete.
I once found God there, in the drumming
of steps. One and two and one.