Motherfuckers in running shoes

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I've owned 3 pairs of running shoes. I still have 2 (the other pair rotted out in the back of my closet. I took black & white photos of them, then I tossed them into a large trash can behind the shed)

I often see people, running down the street. They pass me as I sit on a bench and look at the water. They pass me as I'm sitting in my car, stopped at a stop light. They pass me as I walk to the coffee shop. I think, "they'll live a few years longer than me. Some will be a few pounds lighter."

They own expensive running shoes and special lycra shorts with logos on them. They have bottles that they fill with water and special powders. They listen to "power" songs through headphones that they always seem to be fussing with

The girls legs are thin and tan and I think it would feel good to run my hands down those legs, but if they expect me to keep up with their long stride, they can fuck themselves

Which makes me wonder if runners only fuck other runners, but that thought passes quickly because I know that's not true

It's easy to convince myself that I'm fine here with my rum and coffee, watching them pass by

But perhaps

Tomorrow I'll dig out a pair of my special shoes with the bright contrasting stripes and join them.

Or perhaps

I'll sleep a few hours longer

While my running shoes (with patented gel inserts) rot in the back of my closet.

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