Running Man

how late in the cold you enter
a morning blooming its colors
in a sky that belongs
to no one, for now

a jet writes its intent
a contrail on the sky
as you drive towards money
the buildings are all mirrors

glass heights strangers look down
streets now windy canyons
you see yourself in mirrors
where the rare jumper reflects

you rise behind the mirrors
into a parceled piece of sky
only a chair embraces you
predators swivel towards clouds

behind smoked glass the morning
already leaves a tattered mood
but the trinket of a river
far below holds a color

strange some stranger’s body is the key