Sunday, May 9, 2021

Geoffrey Brock / Mezzo cammin

Mezzo cammin

Today, as I jogged down the center line 
of a closed-off, rain-glossed road, lost in a rhythm, 
the memory of a boy returned: fifteen
or so, barefoot in faded cut-off jeans, 
sprinting past neighbors’ houses, tears drifting 
into his ears, heart yanking at its seams—
he hoped they’d rip and didn’t slow at all 
for more than a mile. After crossing Mission,
the boy collapsed beneath an oak, his whole
body one cramp. (But later the secret smile, 
imagining Guinness there—the clock-men stunned!) 
Twenty years gone, that race so vivid still,
yet I can’t for the life of me recall the gun:
who was it, or what, that made me start to run?

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