Running

Coming off the river off
the ocean, a heavy wind blows down
my running path,
pushing me with the kind
of insistence with which my father,
in fits of rage,
used to say, “Move your feet!”
Why I push myself there, despite the exhaustion that haunts me at the end of a sleepless week, has something to do with the memory of that; not the sound, or the meaning it conveyed, nor even the promise of a better result, but the instinct to do what you are told by those you trust. I don’t trust him still, nor believe that good always follows good, but I still look down and see my feet moving.