the long distance runner

i've got a lot on my
mind she says, as she
stands in the kitchen
with the ironing board
out, folding laundry,
steam rising from the hot
iron in the bright
overhead light. it
feels like an operating
room. she takes a trembling
sip of green tea from a white
porcelain cup that she
can barely get her fingers
into. she is all bones.
a runner, gaunt with
that runner's face
and limbs, too many
veins showing, hardly
an ounce of fat anywhere
flat and boyish at fifty,
or more. her face is
old beyond it's years.
the sun, and runs in
cold weather have worn
her away like concrete
crumbling on a roman
statue. i've seen her
limp with rounded
shoulders up the hill
towards home in rainstorms,
struggling towards that
invisible finish line.
she offers me some
cranberries that are
dried and in a bowl,
some dry almonds in a
jar too. i can't do it
anymore she tells me,
but speaking to the iron,
the shirt, the bright light
in the room, i'm done,
the x-rays aren't good.
i've never smoked, i watch
what i eat, i've run through
two divorces, through
the lives of three dogs,
i put my kids through college
and still ran. this
is all i have. she doesn't
look up at me standing
in the doorway. her blue
eyes are even bluer
when they are wet, like
now. i don't know
what to tell her, what
to say. i've got nothing.
i reach out to touch
her shoulder, but she pulls
back and keeps ironing the
same white shirt over again
pulling the sleeves taut.
don't she says. i'm fine.
i look at her feet,
the blood is soaked across
the line of her bent toes,
blotted in her white socks.
she allows herself a smile
and looks at me,
a thin crease across her tanned
face. new shoes, she says, i
just bought new shoes.