Today I will
write a poem about
the Boston Marathon,
that grand old race from
Hopkinton to Boston.
It will not be
an ode
to dedication
or a dirge
for missed opportunities.
But rather,
about the anxious
bobbing from
foot to foot at the start line.
But rather,
the bouncy stride
and carefree arm swing,
the too fast downhill miles
in the opening miles.
But rather,
the ebullient
screams and pleas
for kisses of Wellesley College
at the half.
But rather,
the tearful smiles and
sobs,
heartfelt hugs at the finish line,
joyful prostations and relieved laughter
having done the thing.
write a poem about
the Boston Marathon,
that grand old race from
Hopkinton to Boston.
It will not be
an ode
to dedication
or a dirge
for missed opportunities.
But rather,
about the anxious
bobbing from
foot to foot at the start line.
But rather,
the bouncy stride
and carefree arm swing,
the too fast downhill miles
in the opening miles.
But rather,
the ebullient
screams and pleas
for kisses of Wellesley College
at the half.
But rather,
the tearful smiles and
sobs,
heartfelt hugs at the finish line,
joyful prostations and relieved laughter
having done the thing.