To warm up we walked
       to the ravine;
              we could both wear my father’s
old running shoes.

You wanted to talk
       about us and if
              I’d stayed with your mom,
what we’d of done?

We started to run
       into the ravine,
              we jostled and touched,
“I would’ve done this…and been more tenacious,”

— you’d already heard,
       so we horsed
              on the narrowing path
until you disappeared.

I caught you up
       the last twenty steps out
              of the ravine,
you smiled: “Old man,

you’re going down,”
       and we raced the half-mile
              back to the house, where you turned
to watch me return;

how I lost
       with all of my heart,
              so far behind;
I’d thought

I seemed more than I was,
       but you weren’t surprised
              how easy
you’d put me to rest.