You run after time until you’re out of breath and bent over heaving.

And you run some more.

You ask over the phone, “Is your refrigerator running?” and the voice says back, “Yes,” and you say back, “You better go catch it before it gets away.” And collapse in laughter.

And you pick up your shoes and run some more.

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it’s sinking, which is a stolen thought direct from Roger Waters, but perfectly captures that sense of time getting away.

Like the refrigerator.

And you run some more.

From meeting to meeting, from house to house, from girl to girl, from baseball game to swim meets, to marriages and therapy appointments.

You run between breaths with your eyes closed.

You run in your sleep and wake up in a sweat thinking this is gotta end, but hoping it never does. (But it does.)

Yeah, you run. From baby to toddler to kid to teenager to someone who runs blindly to middle age until you land in a bed that is your last place. But even there you are running.

Running out to White Hen. Because that’s where you run when you run out of anything.

Run run run.

DMC. Run.

Just run.

Run when you sit and you stand and you kneel. Run when you run around the track.

You just run. Until at least you break through and see it for a moment and realize it was there all along and that you could never catch it because it’s uncatchable.

Completely, 100%, uncatchable.

And that’s alright you think as you catch your breath and feel the sun.