I never ran in Boston

Piscator

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I never ran in Boston

I never ran in Boston
although a distant cousin
second or third - once removed
placed well in the 70’s.
But then his times
were more than a hour
faster than mine,
I never qualified
and wouldn’t have had
the money anyway.

Yet news of the explosions
struck me to the core,
makes no more sense
than flying airplanes
into buildings.
No place is safe anymore
and an eight year old child
lies among the dead.

While in a hospital nearby
a dear friend lies still,
a para - almost quadriplegic,
because her 1000 kilo behemoth
was impacted by another.
Not her fault,
but compensation never
reverses bodily harm.


I wish I could use
those media savvy phrases
that “I share their pain”
when in fact their pain
is beyond my imagining,
because I can put down
my thought experiment
and the long run that follows
soothes only the dogs and me.

So I’m left with
“I am so sorry”
and the feeling
that my ramble’s
going nowhere
because there’s
nowhere to go.

Written two years ago - good luck to all running today
I apologize if this is a double post
 
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I never ran there either but it struck a chord with me to.

Boston Marathon Aftermath

In the subsequent vacuum
we turned to CNN for answers
and there he is,
standing head and shoulders above
the reporting rabble clustered round him
like apostles hoping for a miracle.

He patiently replied to questions
he already answered, his mind
still on the past four hours in surgery
removing shrapnel from six year old legs
and the last shreds of flesh that attached
a twenty year old beauty to her foot.
His weariness was undisguised yet he listened
to request he could not fill.

He was darkly handsome, movie-star material,
but I had tears in my eyes watching
his struggle for composure
as he backed away apologizing
to return to carnage

and I fell a little in love right then.

But now that’s history
and there is progress,
success, triumph. But Martin
is still dead, his mother oblivious,
coma-bound and his little sister
still thinks she has two legs.
 
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