The Runner

I have often crouched to the starter's gun
warm and heart beating the compounding hate
that loves to match the pride of others,
crouching too and guessing the wait
between the ‘Set’ and bang!
In anguished dream, the night before
run the race in yards and laps,
late have overtaken the sleep
I chased in need..........
and, in the morning's flowering curtained dawn,
have wakened to a dancing stomach's
butterfly impatient wait,
with tired legs and helpless thoughts
forward to the afternoon.

The bang! as eager boastful heels
demonstrate my pride
and forgetting maternal manners,
taught at knee and chapel pew,
have within the rules, and just,
grudging given space to other feet
flaying arms and fist-clenched effort,
as to the bend I chased first place,
gloating my way round the curve,
thanking my luck that others cursed.
Bodies gently sweating, fresh tingled limbs
feed the mind  cunning plans
that at the straightening curve
demand the conserving wisdom
that saves an inch to gain a yard
.
Then down the straight,
heel-to-heel and spike-to-spike,
make friends when he's beaten.
well spent evening training bouts.....
no girls...no booze, glucose drink with egg
to the third sweep of the track
and the worry of being second.
Tearing hearts and weeping muscles
cry as lost confidence wildly thrashes
gambling all on fury dashes,
ver-taking on the curve!
the extra yards!
to Hell! and down the straight.

Equality be dammed, altruistic dreams
are lost in this Olympian pursuit,
he smokes, I don't, he drinks, I water,,
I weigh eleven ten and stretch ten feet
my limbs are long and better.
Beat him now!
be sorry when he's second.

Three laps gone, time to gamble,
to all save one the race is lost
he knows, so does he and him and you
guts all ached, thighs taut and torn
and laces loose  (twice tied and checked )
The noise of spectators' clamour lost,
only the breath of him behind,
sweat-salted eyes is heard and felt .  .  .
and  cruel thoughts that he will break
lose stride, or hope.
Then,certain of the end
straightened back and pumping arms
the tape streams honour on the best!
a race  won never again to lose.
A glorious moment timeless as a fable
and forgotten soon by the adoring crowd,
with six-penny tickets
and programmes for a bob.
.
So, from the sports ground’s white-lined green,
to the changing rooms, clammy with leather smells,
embrocation, sweat tangled vests and towels,
to the shower,to wash away
defeated smells, or subdue scents of victory,
dry and comb the hair,
don the crease lined shirt and tie.
so, blazer dressed and
kit packed in a canvas bag,
to the street and crowded pavement.
  .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
Shops, prams and church's steeple,
see the second to my first
race towards the moving bus queue’s
impatient wait and meet defeat,
watch illusive second with gentle gait
free un-cumbered arms,
show his heels, clean as mine once were,
Pay his fare  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
and disappear in diesel fume and traffic shuffle,
leaving standing, stooped and stiff,
the victor burdened with his prize.