This misplaced March snow
smells of high school afternoons
begrudgingly spent running
to the railroad tracks and back,
through flaking walls plastered wet,
deep into maddening madness—
a sentence declared by a track coach gone bored,
perpetually unimaginative,
hopelessly uninformed.
Taunting March snow
reeks of steps stomped angrily
with fellow suckers for pain,
long distance colleagues for miles,
brothers in running shoes
sucking air wicked,
churning consistent complaints,
dripping noses red.
Another hour spent sideways
glamorizing girls never dated,
prophesizing jobs never possible,
visiting streets never walked,
spending money never possessed,
battling reality’s demands
to accept snow-burned cheeks,
sweatshirts soaked fat,
shoes squishing surrender,
socks sagging dead,
spirits breaking cold.
Why couldn't I be a sprinter?
Why couldn't I jump higher?
Why couldn't I put a shot?
Why couldn't I vault a pole?
Why was I always escaping snow?
BAF
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