deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Races

I have often crouched to the starter's gun,
Warm and heart beating the competing hate
That loves to match the pride of others
Crouching too, guessing the wait between  set and bang.
In anguished dreams the night before
Late have overtaken the sleep
I chased in need and
In the 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 and eager boastful heels
Clearly demonstrate my pride and,
Forgetting maternal manners
Taught at knee and chapel pew
Have within the rules ( 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 straightened curve
Demand the conserving wisdom
To save an inch and gain a yard.
Then down the straight ,where  linear
Advantage has no say, but only strength,
Well spent evenings 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
Through bramble bungles of foolish stratagem.
Confidence betrayed, gambling all in fury dashes
Overtaking on the curve!
The extra yards!
To hell ! and down the straight.
Equality be damned, altruistic dreams
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 !
Two laps gone, bet! now is the time.
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’ clammor is lost
Only the breath of him behind
And sweat salted eyes
Is heard and felt and those
Cruel thoughts that he will break
Lose stride or hope.
Then,certain of the end
The straightened back and pumping arms
Declares   second only champion of the third  
The tape srteams honour on the best.
The race is won,ever again to  lose
A glorious moment timeless as a fable
 Fforgotten soon
 By the adoring crowd with shilling tickets
And programmes for a bob.
 
Then from the sports ground  white lined green
To the changing room
Clammy with leather smells
Embrocation, sweat tangled vests and towels
To the shower to wash away defeated smells
Or subdue scents of victory,
Dry,  comb the hair
Don the crease lined shirt and tie,
Then, blazer dressed and
Togs packed in a canvas bag
To the street and crowded pavement
Shops , prams and churche steeple
See the second to my first
Racing towards the moving
Bus queues impatient wait,
Leaving standing stooped and stiff,
The victor burdened with his prize.
 
 
Written by Kexby (john rickell)
Published
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