Marathon 


The chill dawn seeps into day
as I join my fellow runners for the start.
The number against my heart flutters,
paper light,
secured with safety pins through grommets,
my label clear, distinct from all others.

Bending forward,
I wait, motionless,
fingers curled against my palms,
poised.

The starter pistol pops,
and I dive into air,
exploding forward,
propelling bones and flesh,
every inch an advantage,
every sliver of space an edge,
ahead of colors 
waving like flags
to my left and right.

With seconds ticking into meters,
flywheels stick then whir.
Rippling banners lag and fall away,
as I enter deep,
embedded memory 
of oiled motion.

I glide,
legs with clockwork cadence,
arms threshing in rhythm.
Rows of strip malls pass
beyond my sight,
tawdry beach motels
and two-pump gas stations  
the same.
Slow pedestrians pause,
open mouths agape
with astonishment.

Over the road,
I pass,
crunching over gravel,
stomping clouds of dirt.
Minutes tick. 

My face reflects the heated sun;
I blink against the glare.
Headed now to press
the crest of heartbreak hill,
my muscles strain and tighten,
sinews swell to breaking.
My chest heaves,
breath raspy with air
yanked from thin atmosphere.

The river flows ahead.

Heart pounding,
feet thudding on pavement,
I cross shadows from bridge spans,
between guardrails
that melt into ribbons 
of molten silver.

Struggling over a last grasp of sand,
I float through a clear blue dream
toward the finish tape ahead,
its spun sugar perfection
lucent and complete,
like a sphere of sparkling rain  
on the petal of a rose hip,
like a glistening hedge along the shore
of a whispering sea.​