Ode to That Girl Who Jogs Past My House Every Day (A Sonnet)

Rosy-fingered dawn is not yet up

And paper-ridden, I am not yet down

Yet ‘ere the Starbucks sells its opening cup

You are awake and jogging through the town


Each day in hot-pink track pants you endure

As winter gods are practicing their might

If Sisyphus were still alive, I’m sure,

He’d come to think his punishment was light


What goal of fitness are you running to?

Or carbohydrates are you running from?

That so compels this suffering in you,

Pursuing that which never can be won?


And though I sometimes wish your strength on me

I much prefer to stay in drinking tea.

Filed under: Humor


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