The Track Meet

The Track Meet

A warm and sunny day it was,
when they gathered at the line.
Their uniforms were clean and fresh,
and they were feeling fine.
Their brightly colored spikes
seemed to hold their speed,
and as they got into position
winning was their need.
The starter called the mark
and the runners' heads bent low.
Their muscles twitched with nervousness
and their breathing began to slow.
The starter called the set,
and their bodies shifted with care;
the instant felt like forever,
even stiller was the air.
The black rubber came alive
as their eyes stared through the track.
The pistol shot was sudden and quick
there was no looking back.
Their bodies appeared to move as one
as their legs kicked into gear,
but as they sprinted down the track
no longer did finish look near.
Along the curve they seemed to glide
and their legs moved even faster.
They leaned their weight towards the line,
the finish they would master.
The straightaway was under them,
closer and closer they grew,
the answer as to who would win
was one that no one knew.
But the finish line felt no closer
as their muscles screamed out in pain.
The runners' legs started to slow
as their interest began to wane.
Fifty meters to the line,
their reserves kicked in,
but in a heartbeat one fateful move
determined the one who would win.
The lead runner, only inches ahead,
tripped on his own two feet,
and brought all the others down with him:
no one would win at this meet.

THE MORAL OF THIS POEM: don't run 200s

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