One Last Moment on the Ground

The people who love me and the 

People who fuck me are never the same people,

But both leave me voicemails.

My voicemail is full. I keep it that way, like a motel - 

Indefinitely full of tenants incapable of moving on.

And I'm living a life full of teachers;

I'm grateful for the teachers.
Thank you for the teachers.

There are teachers in my brake pedals.

There are teachers in my mornings.

There are teachers in my freezer, and in my printer, and
In the hard days

Of no money and no justice.
There are teachers in my voicemail.

As winter ends,

And the days inch longer and longer,

Stretching slowly like a cat does after waking,

I go for runs along the river in my town.

Rounding the corner of the last fence post, 

I can see my porch light.

I sprint, combusting the last of my energy into one final kick.
The porch light is a teacher,
The cold air is a teacher,
The strain in my lungs is a teacher.

It feels like the last moment on the ground before your plane takes off.

Sometimes fight and flight are the same choice.