When all I can say is repeat what’s been said
It’s hard to believe that the words in my head
Are anything worthy to write or be read
Perhaps I should focus on running, instead.
For who reads newspapers half a day old?
The company’s heart’s barely beating, I’m told
Surely my paper and life’s work will fold.
What could be better than hitting the road?
Making the stories I’d once been reporting
The future, the past, and the present distorting
What would mom say if she saw me resorting
To running and laughing and shameless cavorting?
As it turns five and of course I head home
The sky is an ominous gray monochrome.
I wonder which parent gave the chromosome
That gives me the hesitant instinct to roam.