Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Foot Race

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