This #rhyme began as topical response to the 2012 Olympics but grew into something else, a ditty reflecting my new station in life, retirement presumably penultimate to a terminus ad quem.
*
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
merge into marathon
and 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.