The city of bouncing hair comes alive in winter
As the usual joggers, on display, pick the most
Crowded roads to work out on. Hair of every
Imaginable color flips side to side above bodies that,
To the naked eye, appear to be perfect already.
Jog on young damsels, and perhaps one day
Just the right Benz-driving law student will
Holler out his window as he flashes by. Then,
Two days later, same street, same time, he’ll return,
Dressed in gym shorts for the first time in years,
To jog in hopes of “accidentally” running into you.
Strategic jogging calls for catching you right at the
Corner of Franklin and Boundary as the light turns
Against your ability to flee. Then, in a moment
Of rapture, fully out of breath, he runs-in-place
And pops a question. “Jog here often?” To which
You smugly answer, “Not really,” which sets in motion
A blossoming crocus of late February, followed by many
Dogwood afternoons in March, the quick iris rush of April,
And magnificent magnolia May. By June, other moons.