Fuel
By Sharon D., Wethersfield, CT
Starving runner sprinting on steep pavement
past the lawns which he saw long ago as unrealistic
But the air is pleasing burning through his despised frame in
late November
When the leaves threaten his perception of their sincerity somehow
As he eats his stomach and grips his muscles with long-promised
failure
And vomits himself uphill because he can always do it right.
They all step softly, gently about him now and
his paper mach", stained-glass, wooden creations
never truly sure which to address
So it focuses now on the bricks cornered by the daffodils
windsock fluorescence of a breadcurb
And the warped heat on the melting gum of tar which lies
far less than the daffodils
And the promises trace his motions as his soul thought,
though it was many miles ago
And they all speak softly, in shaky respect to him now
(Though no one dares to caress him).
He knows they've seen the plastic trophies balanced on
his sunken forehead
But after pleasure has wrung his palms into tissue knots
And sifted his cracked replies into sickened shame,
They've watched him peel his own taut skin
Up the curb past the stroller with the baby missing.
He savors the pebble grinding into his heel
And the miles left to go.
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