Mezzo cammin
by
Today, as I jogged down the center lineof 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—
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
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,
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?
who was it, or what, that made me start to run?
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