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City Championship, 1926

My father was a sprinter in his youth
nicknamed Horse for the hitch in his gait.
Here he is airborne in a mid-stride haze.
His singlet ripples in the wind, his face
calmer than I remember it even in sleep
as he reaches through air and its currents
part for him. His body knows the plain truth
of pure speed and all he needs to do is keep
going as he is, ablaze in the afternoon light.

Floyd Skloot

Southern Poetry Review

Issue 54, Number 2

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