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I Run Faster Than Garrison Keillor |
Heads up,
we waited in the blocks--
eyes forward,
ready.
Remember the tortoise and the hare,
he smirked.
Fairy tale,
I replied.
Fable,
he corrected.
Smoke from the starter's gun
lifted before the report
and Keillor stalled
like a snapshot of frozen Minnesota.
I broke fast,
found the easy ribbon,
slowed with each extra stride,
and savored victory
while I watched Keillor
meander onto the football field
for a short conversation with the groundskeeper,
saw him find his way back to the track,
where he introduced himself
to a man and his wife.
We've just returned from vacation,
they explained.
Nifty Hawaiian shirts,
replied Keillor.
Ed's brother-in-law
jogged toward Keillor,
asked him to sign a book.
A pair of sisters (early twenties)
told him they'd driven all the way from Fresno.
Keillor asked them questions about raisins.
I run faster than Garrison Keillor--
crossed the finish line first,
but he was kind enough
to pick up a decent bottle of champagne,
and I sat with him on the curb
between the track
and the football field.
He proposed a toast
to the varieties of victory,
and we discussed
a few of the silly ones.
copyright 2007
Jim D.
Babwe |
