One block from my apartment
Is
the 18-mile mark
Where
the runners pass from 10 a.m.
Until
it’s way past dark.
I
love to join the cheering throngs
Lined
up along the street,
Who
clap and shout support
For
all those pavement-pounding feet.
With
home-made signs held up,
Some
people yell to running friends;
Then
there are smiles and hugs,
Providing
spirit dividends.
The
marathoners represent
A
New York hodgepodge mix
Of
body types, ethnicity
And,
likely, politics.
Yet
all the runners hear the cheers
And
maybe get a lift,
Thoughts
of Covid far away,
Which
is itself a kind of gift.
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