20

He turns and squats for a microsecond
Leg muscles bunching and gathering
Then his body shoots forward through
The gap of crunching, grunting humanity.
At full speed, it looks like a dance
And he seems light, though he is not
But he is lithe and slick and low
Rolling and bouncing off obstacles
Like some kind of magic pinball that
Isn’t deflected but somehow rolls around
The pins and slips cleanly into the hole.
His image on the film still invokes a thrill
But he does not run for anyone anymore.
We once watched him every week, despite
The disappointment of his team and coach
Each year, Thanksgiving dinners balanced
On our laps, forgotten, as we watched.
It was worth the pain of seeing him lose
Just for the pleasure of seeing him run.
Those of us with alliances elsewhere
Rooted for him, a one-man team
One of the best we will ever see.
Everyone wanted him for their own
But none could have him. And honorable
He stayed despite his flawed, hateful match.
He kept silent all those years, though we knew
There must have been frustration and pain.
If only we could have plucked him out
Like one perfect grape among a stinking bunch
To set him gently among others worthy of
Him, he would have ripened properly.
Instead, before it could let him go, he
Pulled himself free and rolled away
From the revolting, dying vine.