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.
