We who speak
of aging as a curse
sense the days we eke
out could get worse.
By habit we hallow
victories of the young,
whose run becomes hollow,
soon enough unsung.
Then, bursts of sprint
merging into marathon,
we reinvent
the measure of having won.
Speed yields to distance.
The brio of dash
topples before persistence,
which trumps flash.
And as we turn to lope,
aiming to come in last,
this remains our hope:
cross not sooner but fast.
< The Skin of Things