With legs of mush and mind of dread
He chamois up and prays for no rain
An hour in and his thoughts turn to bed
His dreams of glory are slain
The alarm blares loud with the moon still bright
Masters is calling his name
But he struggles to rise, he partied too hard
100 meters. He’s done. What a shame
His ache is a knee
His side is a stitch
Running becometh a bitch
With the weeks counting down
And the weather a frown
He sits on the couch
Not a man but a slouch
But she slaps his face
Preaching a phrase full of grace
“You’re gonna have a shitty race”
Motivation pumps though his veins
As contrariness gains
And he rides for five hours with pace
In the pool he’s always flailed and flopped
He’s never had much grace
Yet the meters tick down
And he doesn’t drown
In Palm Springs he’d better not get dropped
He runs to the track
Over ice and snow
It’s no longer desire that’s lack
After all, it’s just one more show
She yells for more speed from the outer lane
He pants and wheezes with legs full of pain
His music is loud with bagpipes that bray
Irish punk on a cold gray day
The last bend of the track comes into sight
He screams a shout that turns to a hack
A November gale blasts him back
Just one more test to his ceaseless plight
Push till the end, it’s a phrase to live by
Because you might as well fight, until you die.
KENNETT PETERSON 