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In the Marathon

John T. Hitchner

Low gray dawn edges sky.
Outriders check watches,
cell-phone another appointment,
swing onto the 7:38
and text one more message
as they ride in on antennae airwaves.

In the apartment
the baby’s fingers fidget,
peel a scab;
blood, like her cries, coagulates.
In another room
the lover finds solace in the warm sheath of his love,
and wonders if five loaves and seven fishes
fed five thousand;
if one rifle or five were fired that November day.
He counts freckles on his lover’s shoulder.
Rising away, he tamps down his hair
with the heel of his hand.
Tomorrow the answers.
Tomorrow.

In the bagel shop,
customers turn pages,
read of offerings made, promises broken.
The same door opens to the same store,
where the same counter serves the same top 40 fast relief
with or without chips.
Outriders instant message “Sell, sell!”
Buyers charge the gates,
show teeth, flash money.
The takers take.
The lover waits.
The baby waits.
The gates close.

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