Marathon

Tortured torsos bend on street corners, watching
wheezes rebound off the hard pavement; clammy hands
clutch bits that shimmy while jumping on the spot,
pounding pavements – pulse rate grateful for the vital,
artificial regularity of red-amber-green:

a final gasp then it’s off past the butcher’s shop,
neck twisting as eyes promise breathless
revisions of lifestyle and philosophies especially
at the sight of still life bouncing up and down on broad
shoulders and the blue stripes of the butchers’ blood
streaked apron,

errant cars honk their horns and aim
their thumping music at the monotonous curve
of Sunday joggers’ typically holding onto wallets
nestled inside agitated pouches –

used later as sacrificial offerings held with shaking
hands once inside the coffee shop
where hot, wispy, elixirs spew and black gold
receives froth and short sharp shots of sneers
in diluted spurts, all served with krispy kremes;

a Sunday brunch to negate a one hour bone
crunching prequel to a coronary and dripping sweat
onto panting canines that impersonate
guide dogs on walks with stray masters –

attached for the ride they breathe in the vast scenery
of semi nubile joggers with tangible jerky bits
of potential inside of skinny vests, inside of the skyscraper
park that swallows up dulcet street tones before dissipating
under pollution’s fake, halcyon sky.