Dawn Leas’ most recent poem to appear here was “Shoppers’ Special” (September 2019).

Trading
By Dawn Leas

Black tights. Hat pulled over ears. Neon orange gloves.
He runs on littered shoulder of a road clogged with commuters.
Over cinders, chunks of black ice, discarded McDonald’s cups,
super-sized, he is motion. His strides makes you see
cheetah chasing gazelle, water over a fall, wing-footed
messenger delivering love, war, loss.

Loss.

He spent 12 years billing hours, long hours of missed games
and recitals. Now, he handles cooking and the school car line.
Signs tests and does Friday-night movie pick-up. Dabbling
in day trading, he wakes at 4 a.m. chasing Europe
while keeping in eye on the close of the Asian market.

Every day at 8 a.m. he runs. No longer lawyer, husband
father, trader. And his energy is magnetic enough
to grab your attention away from the red light, the lunch
you forgot at home, the work you are speeding toward.
Just fluid enough to make you miss foot strikes, the cadence
of your breath counting the miles.