It can’t be about the running anymore.
It can’t be about the treasure, illusory
as the rainbow under which it never really
waited. It can’t be about the waiting.

It’s astonishing, really, how long it takes
to grow into a life. Maybe I’m just a
slow learner, having spent so many of my
young years running. And waiting.

I went as far as I could go without
falling into the ocean, as high as I
could climb without losing my grip
or passing out from lack of oxygen.

Geography is cruel, sweeping me up
with its fat-fingered mid-western hands
and setting me down gently in this place
I’d never choose, all things being equal.

But all things are never equal. Not oceans,
not mountains, not gentle hands and people
who call me ma’am and say nice things
even when I’m not listening.