POETRY

The Race

And the frightful noise

Snug in the womb. The race of life has not begun the zero-hour soon to come your time is up, your rest is done the starter counts and fires his gun.

A flash of light. The laughs and cheers of boisterous kin a frightful noise, a loving din this warm confinement nears its end the gates fly open, “Let me in!”

A faster pace. The sights and sounds of life outside the separation makes you cry head on a swivel, eyes are wide you plot a path for your wild ride.

The track is clear. You lurch ahead with blinders on and though the goal is never shown you feel the pull of the unknown and feet fly as they’ve never flown.

A crowded field. Friends and foes knock elbows to pass not to win, just not to be last. Made-up rules control the contest unsure where to go, just go fast.

Good days and bad. Sometimes you hold the wolves at bay and other times it’s you they slay. You now care less for a loss today than all the wins of yesterday.

Your breath grows short. The will to win begins to wane as younger racers have their days each mile you finish takes its strain each stumbling step, a different pain.

Too late, you stop. To gaze upon the spectacle appreciate the carnival and only then might you recall, the race’s not for racers at all.

Snug in your tomb. What will you regret in the end? Not that you were too slow to win, but the laughs and cheers of boisterous kin that frightful noise, that loving din.

Jim Dutton © 2021