I mistook a runner’s high
for a panic attack. I just can’t tell:
am I hungover, or is this a panic attack?
Have I got the flu, or is this a panic attack?
Is this unease and dread as the metro
rumbles slowly through its cement casing,
throwing sparks and coughing,
the beginning of the end,
or is it just me, isolate
in my panic attack? In the park,
a dog with a tail upturned and curved
like a teacup’s handle ranges alertly
beyond his master’s stride
but with a sensible self-control.
Meanwhile I’m trying to tire
the ponies that startle and shy
all day long on my racecourse mind.
No dice, it seems. Some new filly
is always being brought from the stable,
all unbridled, unfocused energy.
Terror-eyed, she flexes her ankles.
She hurtles herself from the gate.
D U S I E