(for Mary Bisconer)
I saw you running, Mary, on page one
Of the sports section. Ah, for that we’re made!
Our primal fathers thought that it was fun
To run across the sun-baked plains. Afraid
Of something new, the beasts that made the grade
In strength and swiftness gathered breath and fled.
The patient game that early humans played
Left many of those mighty monsters dead.
Hunted beasts, when they hear your rhythmic tread,
Your measured breath, can sense their peril. See
Alarm in their wide eyes – and smell the red
Blood as it rushes through them hopelessly.
Yours is a primal sport, my dear: no lie.
I know you’d kill the same damn beasts as I.