After coming home from a run
around Central Park
in early September,
when I can stand in my kitchen
with only drops of sweat
landing on the floor
instead of puddles forming across the tile,
I like to eat an entire bowl of blueberries
before I even take off my shorts.
I try my best to eat them slowly,
one at a time,
and not in greedy handfuls
like a feverish child.
I try to taste and appreciate each one
even though they are store-bought
and not picked from the bush
the way we used to do
after running up at Minnewaska
in the middle of a weekday
during summer break
when we were making enough cash
working weddings on the weekends
that we could afford to do nothing all day
but run and eat blueberries
as the lake dried on our skin in the sun.
And I can’t run the way we used to
or whenever I want to
but I try to remain grateful
for the chance to find myself,
every day,
no matter how long
I am forced to sit in front of a screen
and worry about emails or paying rent.
I can still tie loops of the park together
and fly up Harlem Hill
in complete honesty
as the night crashes through the trees,
then come home to sweet explosions on my lips,
each one louder than the last.
David Lukas is a writer and distance runner living in New York City. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Sheepshead Review, Chronogram, and elsewhere. His miles have been run in the streets of New York, the woods of New Jersey, the mountains of the Hudson Valley, and elsewhere.