You cut sharp strides
through the crowds.
You push aside
the clouds;
all the weak, the mild,
the losers and dregs,
all of those
who might cramp
your style
as you unleash
your barking legs.
You aim
and shoot yourself
at the line.
You claim to own
the better time.
At heart,
in bed,
you’re an impatient mover;
for all that you lack
as a casual lover
you know
you will gain
on the track.
You are
the sexual athlete.
You run
to save your life.
When you breathe
you compete
for a place
for a wife,
for all the medals
the system mints;
all those that gleam
in your ‘healthy’ head
as fresh
from an early morning stint,
you’re the first
to drop
down dead.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
