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Atlanta Marathon

Kevin Heaton

I stand directly below the huge Olympic
archway in downtown Atlanta freezing
on Thanksgiving Day; wearing jogger’s
tights and a black stocking cap. Execution
of a self-imposed sentence sending me
into a four hour preview of Hades, is set
to be carried out in mere moments. There
has been no last minute governor’s stay
granted, or pardon issued. Twenty thousand
errant, unrepentant souls will accompany
me on my free fall flee from grace.

The starter discharges his pistol and a long
serpentine throng slithers slowly down
the wide asphalt throat to perdition. For nine
miles, there is a mysterious absence of pain.
Along both sides of the paved road to good
intentions, imps exhort my progress. I am
warily suspicious, but sans the anticipated
pain; mock their elation, and am neither
deterred nor penitent.

Too late, I realize that the first two legs
of this journey have merely passed through
purgatory; a realm to which my fate
has not been assigned. This sullied soul
must first be broken, then purged
of carnal impurities. Before me yawns
the intended atonement for prior transgressions.

In my self-righteous taunting of the damned,
I have neglected taking on water. Dehydration
has now begun hammering piston cramps
into thirsty groin and calf muscles; wrenching
them much like fists twisting a wet dish rag.
Each nerve ending screams in anguish,
as if being compressed between collapsing
vice-grip jaws. I succumb, writhing in torment,
lapsing into pain induced incoherence.
In a vision: I see Lazarus standing at the far side
of a great chasm. I call upon him to dip his
finger in quenching waters of relief, and to place
one precious drop on the end of my parched tongue;
but he is in Paradise, and cannot hear me.

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