tomorrow you walk

there comes a point
when you can't run anymore.
when you put the shoes
on, the shorts, and layered
shirts, when you check
your watch, stretch,
then head out into
the wind and cold and cringe.
after a mile you ask yourself
why. what am I doing
this for. you count up
the injuries, to foot
and knee, to hip
and back. you're no longer
twenty or even fifty
and yet you persist, not to
turn back a clock, but
to keep it still,
keep it from ticking
forward. tomorrow you walk.