To the Italian runner who was lost after the NY Marathon... and found again
The way home
Diane McManus
He went on to explain how each totemic ancestor, while
travelling through the country, was thought to have scattered a trail of words
and musical notes along the line of his footprints, and how these
Dreaming-tracks lay over the land as ‘ways of communication between the most
far-flung tribes.
‘A song’, he said,
‘was both map and direction-finder. Providing you knew the song, you could
always find your way across country.’
Bruce Chatwin, The
Songlines
On subway —
disheveled, confused still
in running gear.
We leave the
familiar behind
The language is
strange.
Separated from the rest, shivering.
We train months
Teased as children.
We want them to be
proud.
We learned their
songs.
Fragile, map and key gone.
least athletic, alone
at the finish.
In the woods near
water, we wait.
In the park, he could not find friends
who could not find him.
The Pino Grigio, a favorite.
We could not find
our way home, so ran,
spending nights
alone. Surely we could fly
tomorrow.
Gatekeepers said no.
Mr. Merango was lost.
Lips dry and trembling
looking left,
looking right, looking left, looking right.
Out of place. Still
in race.
Found underground, recognized, he smiled.
The coffee hot, the donut sweet. Three dollars.
We learned slowly
to be brave.
posted by DPMcManus @ 7:05 AM
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