In the days after white earbuds left
fashion I was put in a bit of a bind:
How best to communicate to the public that I do not
want to talk when I am on the elevator?
With the largesse of the new noisecancelers
I can keep the switch lit while the battery on my phone dies
and in this position you mock-harrumph while I hiss-air-boom.
Kidding: you are not paying attention at all.
Except when we’re running.
When are we not, after all?
After work, you ask after my Bose, how they are canceling.
We are on a run, and it has been weeks,
in that it has been, like, three and a half weeks,
since I last ran into you.
You were, you texted through my phone,
just so busy reading about how busy you are all the time.
And this run we go on
to have the luxury to have the sincere pleasure
to warm again to one another
via a stadium go-around)
is a curt jog cum sprint along the I don’t know.
I forget what that body of water is called.
The first ten would be warm were it
not for my exercise-induced asthma
so I claim, for time, a snort through my lying turbinates
knock-knock albuterol and samidzat pseudoephedrine
coughing up guaifenesin with whatever scrape-able noxious something
clear as tin (allergies!) and voice plaqued
I am unable to contain my contempt without the use of a spacer.
Slight little thing!
You, who call yourself chub,
I can’t believe you can even talk while you’re working out.
At times it seems you live to offend,
dicking around with your metrics.
To stick a Bovie on me
is to do your 20 curls, 10 mountain-climbers, 800-meter run
except that times we can scale.
And I know our friend on our same app
she is keeping a running feed.
And patch or no patch
it takes a thrum in the blood to remain at 115.
Who can replace my bronchioles’ cytokine grab-ass?
It is just me joining the half-an-hour earlier group.