The Run Through (An Original Narrative Poem)

by Jordyn Coats

He runs through grass not cut by metal
mounted next to motors. With each day,
a walk becomes a jog;
a jog becomes a sprint.
Weeks go by. The weeds brush
against his shins annoyingly.
The man pushes through
on this Sunday afternoon
until his heels skid and lock
the irritating blades of green
around his ankles. He can't bend
down to scratch the itch. It's numb
(to him, at least). Greek statue-like,
blue eyes glaze over.
A grey-haired woman,
with a bucket of muddy water sitting on the rotten porch,
crawls on cracked, callus infested hands and knees.
She measures the length, moves the knife closer,
and hovers gently as if she were cutting her daughter's curls.