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john-f-mccullaghPoems
The Race An injury in sophomore year caused me to miss the springtime meets. I was sitting in a cast while my teammates won their heats. I am no brain, I can’t sit still No chance I’ll ace the S.A.T. But medal wins in track and field could mean a scholarship for me. Near Lewis is a cinder track- an oval of a quarter mile. So I come here to do my laps And dream of victory for a while. A short fat man goes jogging by In sweat drenched shirt and navy shorts Gasping, like a fish in air, fleeing from his mortal thoughts. I doff my sweats and start to stretch I take no chances with this knee. Soon I’m feeling good and loose, it pays to warm up properly. A tall thin runner, strangely pale, About half of the track ahead I‘ll pass him like he’s standing still Then he’ll be chasing me instead. I pass the jogger right away The pale runner, though, moves speedily I pick up my pace a notch Just as quickly so does he.. I stretch my stride, he does the same And gains upon me steadily I thought that I was chasing him It seems instead he’s chasing me. I never raced this guy before At any of the local meets He appears to be as old as me But his gear is “thrift shop” quality. Sure enough, he’s gaining fast. I dig down for a last reserve I didn’t think I’d lost a step Bad news, if it’s true, for me I hear his foot falls close behind And vainly try to stay ahead I turn my head to see his face It is the face of one long dead. The ghostly winner makes a turn and passes through the gate and chains The cemetery lies beyond That holds the urn with his cremains “You saw him too” the fat man gasps- “I thought that he had come for me” I knew he only came to run I recognized the ghost you see. “Tommy Miller was his name School Champion back in 63’ .He died crossing this finish line an aneurysm in his brain.” Unfinished business binds him here A restless spirit, more than most, The race is ever to the swift The quick are beaten by a ghost
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Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
The Race
The Race An injury in sophomore year caused me to miss the springtime meets. I was sitting in a cast while my teammates won their heats. I am no brain, I can’t sit still No chance I’ll ace the S.A.T. But medal wins in track and field could mean a scholarship for me. Near Lewis is a cinder track- an oval of a quarter mile. So I come here to do my laps And dream of victory for a while. A short fat man goes jogging by In sweat drenched shirt and navy shorts Gasping, like a fish in air, fleeing from his mortal thoughts. I doff my sweats and start to stretch I take no chances with this knee. Soon I’m feeling good and loose, it pays to warm up properly. A tall thin runner, strangely pale, About half of the track ahead I‘ll pass him like he’s standing still Then he’ll be chasing me instead. I pass the jogger right away The pale runner, though, moves speedily I pick up my pace a notch Just as quickly so does he.. I stretch my stride, he does the same And gains upon me steadily I thought that I was chasing him It seems instead he’s chasing me. I never raced this guy before At any of the local meets He appears to be as old as me But his gear is “thrift shop” quality. Sure enough, he’s gaining fast. I dig down for a last reserve I didn’t think I’d lost a step Bad news, if it’s true, for me I hear his foot falls close behind And vainly try to stay ahead I turn my head to see his face It is the face of one long dead. The ghostly winner makes a turn and passes through the gate and chains The cemetery lies beyond That holds the urn with his cremains “You saw him too” the fat man gasps- “I thought that he had come for me” I knew he only came to run I recognized the ghost you see. “Tommy Miller was his name School Champion back in 63’ .He died crossing this finish line an aneurysm in his brain.” Unfinished business binds him here A restless spirit, more than most, The race is ever to the swift The quick are beaten by a ghost
A ghost story
john-f-mccullagh
Written by
john-f-mccullagh
63/M/American
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
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