T H E    P O E T R Y    O F    D I S T A N C E    R U N N I N G
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I was glad to see the runner striding
   by. I was glad for his lean

legs and torso bared to the autumn air,
   for the relentless rustling

rhythm of his spikes. Beneath the dying
   leaves on the trees, his dappled

dash hardly disturbed the leaf-splattered
   lakeshore path. Beneath a sky

where jets deliver death anyplace
   in the world, I was glad

for his solitary sprint over October’s
   debris, for the body’s ripe

motion and muscle, so alive
   and perishable.

© 2002 by Brian Powers

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