Foot Race
They know only wind
made fast by their own limbs
striving. One boy
twists his head to gauge
the other’s speed,
neck straining
against the backward pitch
of his shoulders. His shallow chest
lifts, clavicles protruding
over the stretched-out neck
of his tee shirt.
The friend ducks his head,
pumps his peaked elbows.
They suck air and smile.
I’ve driven past
before they reach the finish—dead end
of the side street or a line
dragged in the dirt—so I don’t
see if the smaller one trips
over his worn-out Nikes and is
tearful at his friend for always winning.
Or if the big one is slower, unfamiliar
with the new length of his bones.
They are lost behind the curve
when I look for them
in the side mirror.
They are the last beautiful thing
I’ll see for miles.
Robbie Pock
Bisbee, Arizona, USA
American Red Cross
