For Kurt

Ambling around the track
with the heat of August 
almost melting
the all-weather surface
that used to be dirt,
my mind vaporous 
as the chalky sky, probably
thinking I should 
have pushed myself 
harder back then,
of the way laziness
has dogged me my entire life,
until football coach Meyers, 
now with white hair,
and still with a whistle 
around his neck,
shows up and I think 
he’s going to pass me by 
but he falls into place
in the lane next to me
and wants to know
what it was like up there—
pointing to the rows 
of bleachers
rising up from the track,
so I start with cool
Saturday afternoons, 
always sunny,
and high school kids
sitting behind the old-timers
with names like Bert 
and Shorty and how 
they kept a running 
commentary the whole game
as cheerleaders egged
us on to ever wilder abandon,
with little kids racing
up and down the stairs
and the brass horns gleaming
in anticipation 
of the halftime show,
and in the meantime, blasting 
out one victory song
after another, and girls 
shaking red and black 
pom poms on sticks
and now Mr. Rex has joined us
in this poor excuse of a jog—
Mr. Rex, who used to sell 
hot dogs in the concrete 
catacombs
under the stadium 
and cold Coca Cola
in waxy paper cups and he
wants to know, too, 
what it was like
up there and I remember 
my history teacher,
Mr. Baker, levitating 
with excitement,
his emotions run rampant
like the barbarian hordes,
and how we clapped
and cheered ourselves hoarse
and how the best part,
the very best part,
was when the cross 
country team burst onto 
this track amid the
cacophony of sight and sound,
the runners pushing hard
their lean stride—
each one having traversed
wooded trails with washed
out gullies, wide open
windy fields, and steep 
hills split up the side
with gray rocky 
outcroppings—
and how the crowd
jumped to its feet,
the young and the old,
Greek grandmothers
and debate team champs
embracing spontaneously,
as the runners closed in
on the finish line.