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Decathlon poem
Decathlon poem (0)
 In ten seconds it's over ended almost as it began from a rush at the line to a burst from the blocks at the blast of a gun shearing wind in a pack of eight each cutting the tape a breath from the other more points than air between each. |
 One hundred feet to an eight-inch board from which he blasts four times his body's length into the sand his heel print measured back to the board unless he stepped out too far and fouled so never started. |
 Sixteen pounds, cast iron pressed to five-inch diameter wedged between chin and hand body stooped reared back to forward, upward, outward throws still confined in a ring he heaves, grunts, screams, releases. |
 Leaping over his head is not enough but one foot more will do to stay in the vent where the bar climbs two inches at a time and when the hours are done he has stretched the limits of gravity and the definition of his anatomy. |
 Legs pushing body hard once around the track too long to sprint too short to plan gut-wrenching race he runs two curves two straightaways between two lines and the first to break the last is the first to break down and only the first day is done. |
 Ten barriers, hip high four strides apart arms parallel to legs in positions measured for speed and accuracy but not for those conditioned to pull for less than total harmony of running and flying rhythms suspended for a quarter-minute. |
 The disc locked between taut forearm and cupped hand stretched between flailing body swinging madly in dizzying circles within a caged circles which stops upon launching the disc in spiraling flight a wind pendant lofting descending but impacting only when the thrower pulls himself up. |
 Beyond the roof of a two-story house or ceiling of a commuter tunnel with endless headway of the heavens the Fiberglas rod three times his size bends him back bends his back farther than when he was on earth and snaps him up a rubber band with purpose in flight and direction intentionally soaring past the bar at the apex crash landing in the clouds of a safe earth. |
 Sky piercing spear length of the hurler following his chest-high kicks as he runs to the line behind him back even farther as he moves on, closer, then half-moon rainbow arc squeezing the silent air with its cutting whistle a home run's distance away. |
 Not to end like this, please! the decathlete's muscular force to heave the shot, discus, javelin his breaking strength to dash the hundred, four hundred, hurdles his graceful power to long jump, high jump, pole vault do not quite prepare him for this end not quite a mile but more like 36-hours later of exertion, waiting, exhaustion to end like this a marathon of proportions a confirmation of his skill his determination his absolute master stroke: not mastered yet required each step one closer to athletic excellence. |
Decathlon poem by Philip Vassallo
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