Jan Sand (February 2 1926 / USA)
I see them loping by
At steady pounding paces
With grim determination
Structuring their faces.
There is, I've heard, a high
Resulting from exertion
Infusing blood with chemicals
To stimulate, bestow elation
On the participants
In this masochistic race.
Why do they seem so desperate,
I ask, as they thump by?
What is it that they flee
With tightened clamping jaws
And flailing fists that seem to grip
A precious hold on life?
I did not see the phantom figure
Far behind, moving steady as it's target,
Its hounds of clogging arteries
And defects of the heart loping silently
To move in eager bounding leaps.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.