Dad used to run 5Ks.
His shiny tight pants kept pace near the front
in a respectable clump, just behind the winners.
 
Needing more time, he says, to enjoy the race
he switches to marathons where thousands throng
in front of his panting pumping elbows
as he pounds twenty-six miles
of aging blacktop, pockmarked as his wrinkled brow.
 
We take the train all over the city,
raise our lettered felt signs, chanting "Go! Dad! Go!"
in the same singsong rhythm
he once read aloud to us at bedtime.
 
Five hours later, we wrap
a metallic blanket over his shivering shoulders,
help him hobble off with a medal and a new T-shirt,
his breath still roaring like a runaway truck.

© by Jacqueline Jules.
Used here with the author's permission.