somewhere my body is still running

there are legs 
growing up from the dirt 
so i do my job &
put socks then
shoes on them.
i am not sure whether or not
these are my legs
so i treat them like they could be.
the legs are ripe with running
& they want a great big courtyard 
to practice in. 
i put my ear to the dirt 
& there is a great big singing--
a kind of opera
but opera isn't in season 
so it must be something else.
i wonder if the legs are attached 
to bodies that are singing 
but that's silly 
this is a museum of legs
& nothing more.
i put bracelets around
their ankles.
i put flowers in between
their toes.
i am sick with sleeping
& no two legs make
a pair. pushing ibuprofen 
into the dirt
i tell the legs that
this will make them feel better.
i've been walking on my hands
this whole time & 
i recognize some of these legs
& they might belong to
my family members 
or maybe just someone in 
very short shorts i took 
notice of. this is my role
i take care of the legs.
i run my hand up calves
& thighs to check their 
density. i tell the legs they're doing
a good job. i tell them how far they
should run in their own minds
& then i lay down in the soil
to do the same. i run seven miles 
per hour. my legs ache with 
sidewalk & weeds. i tell 
myself stories as i go:
i'm running from a school of tuna
i'm running from an angry man
i'm running from an avalanche
i'm running from some kind
of unnamed fear.
the cars on the street
are made of legs. the legs 
on the street are made of telephone wires.
i ask someone to please
see this beautiful field 
i'm tending. the light changes
to green. the car horns are
blooming. i ask my legs
to go ahead 
& plant themselves 
if they haven't yet.