We’re all in our own worlds, but few of us more so than runners and hair twirlers.

We twirl our hair absently. We run
with scarcely a glance at the rest of the world,
those passersby strolling, sauntering, meandering.

Real runners care about form, but not us
—we run only to get somewhere quickly,
not for the pleasure of it, or for our health,
but because we must.

We do not think about those who observe us because we’ll pass them soon enough and forget them. “Where’s the fire?” we might overhear as we whiz by. For some of us, the fire is at our feet, always nipping our heels.