Those who speak
of aging as a curse
sense the days they eke
out could get worse.
By habit they hallow
victories of the young,
whose run becomes hollow
, soon enough unsung.
As bursts of sprint
merge into marathon
they reinvent
the measure of having won.
Speed yields to distance.
The brio of dash
topples before persistence, which trumps flash.
And as they turn to lope,
aiming to come in last,
this remains their hope:
cross not sooner but fast.
***
I’ve tweaked this poem, written for the 2012 Olympics, shifting it from the somewhat maudlin first person to the third. To my present ear, it works better, though no one should have any illusion that these kinds of thoughts are likely to occur to anyone who has not himself begun to reinvent the measure of having won. In The Skin of Things.