All the good sports
go out for a run
into the ice storm.
They grimace and squint
in the headlights of cars
on Riverside Drive.
And they run as if for their lives
in this freezing rain
that sheathes and has broken
the leafless branches
along snow-plowed bike paths;
ice-pellets ping off
their pricy goggles, their fluorescent shells,
as they struggle north
to the pole where
they always turn back
for the Christmas lights strung
over the porches
welcoming home
those who might have been
men.
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 6:02 PM UTC
All the good sports
go out for a run
into the ice storm.
They grimace and squint
in the headlights of cars
on Riverside Drive.
And they run as if for their lives
in this freezing rain
that sheathes and has broken
the leafless branches
along snow-plowed bike paths;
ice-pellets ping off
their pricy goggles, their fluorescent shells,
as they struggle north
to the pole where
they always turn back
for the Christmas lights strung
over the porches
welcoming home
those who might have been
men.
The more I read this, the less I like it. Simply put, it's boring. I guess there's some utterly unpersuasive argument for the alignment of form and content (play-acting serious endeavours, whether polar exploration or poetry) - but it's not working for me. Close to erasing it, but hanging in there for the sake of continuity.
