at least his legs did,
though they never left the chair. They jogged in place
as he was sitting there. I swear they could bore
holes in the floor, because they pounded

the ground as a drill. You could never tell
where he was off to.  My father ran the marathon,
at least his mouth did. He was  a locomotive that left
the tracks and derailed a long time

back. His smokestacks billowed in the air and blew in my face
until I disappeared. He spoke some English, but mostly
gibberish. And my only wish was that I could
get away from this. Anywhere was better when

the whistle blew, as boiling water in the tea kettle
spills it burns you. And it has. My father ran the Marathon -
So far, he hasn’t come back.