A Kopelesque Poem

Three A.M. and I'm next to nake, boxer shorts and long black socks pulled three quarters up my shins. I run down a dark street, its sides ever narrowing. A fear of what is and what is to be restricts me from certain spots, and I make myself content with running in the median. Sweat slicks my overweight body in the cool of the night, and I remember Her, that made me sweat like this. The sweat of fear and pleasure married. She's gone now, and I am here. I return home and find my way to a keyboard, trying to write a thought but hopelessly feeling it inadequate. My fingers fight me, unwilling to write the frankness my mind bares to an email. I labor on, and finally sign my name to the bottom and send it to Her. No doubt one of hundreds. I scold myself for my foolishness, and chasing the past, and lie down for a sleep. 3:20 A.M.