When I was young, nobody ran, unless,
behind them on a dark and lonely road,
they felt the breath of some misshapen thing,
the aspens quivered and the willows wept;
or if they’d spent their bus fare on warm beer,
and they were overdue where duty called.
Accoutred armies hurtle through our parks
and boulevards, no good to ask them where’s
the fire. Health oozes from their every pore.
The race is to the swift, though only three
ascend the podium. The rest are also-rans,
way down the field, not troubling the judge.
But now my ears are pricked, I pick up speed.
There is the flag, and there the finish line.
