The Jogger
By Leonard K. Eaton
With sweat-suit gray and shoes
of black
The Jogger pounds along our
track.
With Sony Walkman on his
head
He frowns and forges
straight ahead.
Who knows what joggers
really think?
They are always on the brink
Of some profound observation
Which will be the result of
intense celebration.
Heedless of damage to ankles
and knees,
They run through every grove
of trees.
Calories they burn at every
stride.
To be really gaunt is a
jogger's pride.
Scorn have they for those
who play at games.
For the jogger, golf and
tennis are dirty names.
Joggers keep track of every
mile.
But who has ever seen a
jogger smile?
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