Hope is a Runner

I think and write
and click and post,
and worry,
"Does this suck
the most?"

Do fewer words,
but more detail,
bog down a blog
-- to no avail?

Hope is a Runner

Far below
a city’s sky
towers rise
and so do I.

I set about
my merry way,
to do my job
and do it gay.

With papers
lined up in a row
and roses vased,
the way I know.

The crowd will soon
begin to swell.
I’ve done my job
and done it well.

I look around
for things to do.
I see concrete
– it’s painted blue
with pastel paint
and symmetry.

Look!

Stainless steel Modernity!

Geometry
I do admire,
but nature creeps.

Does it conspire?

I saw the color.
I saw the shapes.
I trek off
to the starting gate.
The Arch it frames
a noble scene.
A man in bronze.
He’s turning green.

Perhaps it’s brown,
I stop to think.
The water, though
….no doubt is pink.

I cannot help
but look around.
And see
the thronging
of the crowd.
Some shake
their fists
towards the heavens.
I am worn out.
Is it eleven?

Their stories start
to bombard me.
I see some Hope
tied to a tree.
And perched
upon a runner’s back -
a name I know…
My soul runs black.

The sounding
of the starting bell.

The hateful splitting
of a cell.

The race then starts,
as do the crowds,
to run and walk
or roll around.
The wheelchairs
start to upset me -
confronted by infirmity.

But ladies
with their sparkly bobs
alleviate
impending sobs.
I then seek out
more levity.
Monsieur Kool-Aid
… ici …with me.

The race ends
by a structure new.
And one --
the demolition crew
will soon implode
and that’s a wrap!
I think that’s
just a load of crap.

But then I see
the pink balloons.
I feel much less
a big, fat goon
when roses handed
to survivors
are touched
and smelt
and so admired.

Back to the booth
at last I go.
The roses gone
by now I know.

The race it was
a big success.
I could not even
doubt it less,
that back next year,
I sure will be.

Unless, indeed,
a remedy
for all the ills
and ails of time
could end as easily
as a rhyme.