Nate Marshall (b.1989)

in the land where whitefolk jog

he walk down the road
dark & abandoned
skull cap & scowl
quick stride & limp
he mug & bump
the sound of fuck you up
in his headphones.
he hear what goes
bump other than him
in the new moon’s no light
he brace for everything
he slide his key in between
two fingers in his fist
readies to aim somewhere
soft & exposed
he contemplates a cheek
or eye socket

he raise his hand out of pocket
like a holster & cocks elbow
& the pat pat of New Balances
bounce down & around the
corner & she glows in her
peach thigh & sunflower
shorts & she pat pat &
he remember key in fingers
is for locking & also entry

he enters a decade earlier
& hoping for glory
to wash him in high school
he straps up high top only
athletic shoe he owns & is off

he around the corner & over the glitter
of exploded wild irish roses he thump
thump & across the path of the pits
& shepherds & rottweilers
he see the neighborhood people there
& he thump thump & they do in unison
he know they never seen someone run
in not their hardest way
he never ran in less

he never been in land where
jog is a memory
he never knew someone to run
without having to join them
or stop them in their tracks