The Race


Like glass, the surface is smooth,
Marred only by one quiet ripple, a juvenile wave.
And the herd staring at it,
All here to compete.
Almost perfect athletes:
Almost unthinking.

"Gentlemen, this is the 100 meter butterfly. Take your marks."
Bansgplashshshsh
Eight craters like the features of the Man in the Moon.
Does the pool have a soul?
He holds them back as they strain forward.
They hold themselves back:
Wishing they had really found the long-hoped-for
Portal into the amniotic fluid.

No. Reality.
Today is competition.
Fighting.
Pleasure perverted--
Youth defiled.
Pain fills their lungs--
Lucky it's not water!
Sting in their eyes
"Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!"
You must block out your humanity,
Become like a robot, a strong ox!
Swing your arms.
"Faster! Faster!"
A concrete cliff becomes clear,
An end to it all.
Torture.
Winners. Losers.
None completely satisfied.


Copyright 1997 Michael Owen