April 16 : Three images for a poem

I wanted to write about
1) onions as I make curry,
2) a flipped coin spinning on its rim, or
3) bombs exploding near the finish line.

Sleep doesn’t want me to connect the dots.

I see the layers of the onion,
thick here, thin there, the whiter the deeper.

I see the coin fly like a cheap animation
for a TV show about financial undoings
(maybe PBS).

The bombs, I can’t see.
I can’t imagine running four hours,
hearing cheers and applause,
feeling the pavement get firmer and harder,
feeling sweat suck at my clothes,
and then the flash
and then the adrenaline to keep running
after I’d told myself,
“When we cross the line, self,
we won’t have to run any more.”

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