Mezzo cammin

Today, as I jogged down the center line
of a closed-off, rain-glossed road, lost in a rhythm,
the memory of a boy returned: fifteen

or so, barefoot in faded cut-off jeans,
sprinting past neighbors houses, tears drifting
into his ears, heart yanking at its seams

he hoped theyd rip and didnt slow at all
for more than a mile. After crossing Mission,
the boy collapsed beneath an oak, his whole

body one cramp. (But later the secret smile,
imagining Guinness therethe clock-men stunned!)
Twenty years gone, that race so vivid still,

yet I cant for the life of me recall the gun:
who was it, or what, that made me start to run?

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Geoffrey Brock is the author Weighing Light and the translator of several books from the Italian language.

Topics: Poetry

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