I ran my race,I did my best.
I'm not the champion,I'm among the rest.
After twenty six miles I'm scant of breath.
I push myself but there's not much left.
I search the crowds on Boyleston Street.
for the friends That I'm supposed to meet.
I see an upraised friendly sign
that marks my race's finish line.
Then thunder, fire, billowing smoke.
The air is acrid and I am choked.
The starter clock reads Four oh Nine
as I fall across the finish line.
I think of him from ancient times
who ran a race as long as mine
To Athens he sped from Marathon
to bring good news in a troubled time.
My news is evil, I scarce can speak
of what I saw there in the street
A loud report, a second bomb,
A portion of the grandstand gone
A blur of color, the flag brought down
I see the picture but there's no sound.