He bleeds through his shoes on a regular basis.
His shins are now splinters from a thousand races.
He looks at the line, sees no jokers, all aces.
They each will win by the looks on their faces.
His hands start to shake as he tightens his laces.
He looks up to God and asks for His graces.
They starter growls “Men, get to your places.”
Toes to the line, sharp elbows, no spaces.
He has known last place but his memory erases.
The gun goes off and a hunger replaces
His fear of just how quick the pace is.
He strides to the front and leaves no traces.
No one will catch him, no matter who chases.
Lane 2 