There’s a park on a hill
where the wealthy folk jog,
walled with pines
and osprey calls.
Here, every morn
gaudy foam shoes
slap the one strip of road,
paved in a loop
so each jogger knows
exactly
where to go.
No uncertainty,
no turns,
no twists
along the way.
Just a
roundabout march
in a
child-safe park
where they can
race away
their days.
pm poetry 