After the Marathon
Yes, praise the winners—glory to their names
et cet., et cet., but spare a limping thought
for lowly sneakers, we who know that fame’s
relentless as the thundering juggernaut.
They also serve … we’d love to stand and wait—
alas, we’re action, patience not our point;
designed to race, streamlined to compensate
for every human blister, each weak joint.
We’re stamped, now, on the tarmac, asphalt, grit
that pass for roads—the chippings, litter, gum
and fast-food debris, every greasy bit
of bone, skin, gristle in the micro-slum —
here on your average inner-city street.
Once we were pristine, scuff-free, state-of-the-art,
fresh-from-the-box—but that’s before this heat
fried us to scorching rubber, from the start
of twenty-bloody-six competing miles,
each salty, soaking, stinking, sweating step.
The finish is what matters, not our styles:
by then a dog-mauled slipper has more pep.
The race is done: the winner’s reached his goal,
but in the front-page photos don’t forget
just what we shared together, sole to soul:
blood, sweat and tears. Especially the sweat.