Who doesn’t admire
the dash—barefoot
racer—that thrusts
us sluggish folks forward—
carrying us on its back—
breathlessly running from
one place to the next—
never looking down—
as again and again
it thinks it spies
the finish line—
ever disappearing over
a false summit—
following the Dickinsonian heroine
it will never catch—
flying optimistically until
it sees the sentences—
ultimately the burdens—
it bears on the wind of breath—
holding horizontal—
never stumbling—
while it optimistically hopes
the conclusion’s near—
then recognizes all along
it’s been running—
not a
sprint—
but a
marathon—