The World is a Treadmill

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We’re washing
dirty feet long
before the race.
The electronic
rubber we forget
to keep awake is
a wisp on our
shoe soles—
but that’s what it’s for,
this treadmill,
changed per house or gym
you’ll find it in:
weight loss and somersaults,
winter resolutions,
magnanimous oaths,
the permanent smell
of burnt toast.
The world is all that’s left,
staring in from the garage,
waiting while we squint at work.
Black. Luminous only when we touch it,
and when it starts to move,
     we move on too, one step
          finding another as our eyes
               watch the world count up
                      while we really
stay still.

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