Dreaming to Run

A nice, simple poem inspired by an amazing group of athletes.

I have a sticky-note at my bedside

with a time I will never achieve

so that I can dream of being better than

I tell myself to believe.

I fall asleep with my sense of pride

evaporating with each stride—

not into nothingness,

but slinking down my worn legs

and residing in my socks.

While I sleep I twitch and naturally glide into form

with high hips, toes caressing the footboard,

pattering back and forth.

And as I drift away,

so drift my doubts out of my uniform,

which, by the way, holds

the world record for making me carry my chest high.

I exhale; my tight lungs show the sky how to part like Moses

before letting the air burn down and up my throat.

I run because my sheets, under the tutelage of my rubbed-off sweat,

are crying for me to churn out another set.

And through my quiet murmurs,

my pillow trains me to keep my eyes up,

turnover dialed-in to the frequency of the finish line,

unbending gaze locked on the sticky-note

just on the other side of my closed eyelids.