The four o’clocks are not punctual
Coming both early and late
Yet always most reliable
In their appearance.
They are not to be escaped
But instead endured
As Nanny mentioned things must be
If they cannot be cured.
It is best to move
Actually and physically
Bringing the almost dead self
To another frame of reference.
However this requires an energy of belief
As much as of action
For once one recognizes the trough
The voice in charge weeps out “Too late.”
But still it must be done
Up and off to another spot for sitting
There to observe oneself
Despite disbelief in the process.
For myself I try to channel or meet myself as I will be in a few hours when the day has drifted down and I have drug myself into running clothes, driven to the machines, run and sweated and replaced fluids sensibly and then driven home admiring the steam and pinkness of my face in the driving mirror at traffic lights, the feel of the barely changed air pumping out of the car vents, and then walked inside and put on the tea kettle and forced myself upstairs and into the shower and then, only then, cooling and cleaning, does my head clear enough to feel I could have run one more mile and who, after all, was that man typing this very lost stream but a breath or two earlier?