There he is,
gracefully pacing himself
on the homestretch.
Only a few more steps.

His gray hair slowly
receding north
of his forehead.
The gait of a hard
thomp with his right leg
is present, even
after 26.2 miles.

As I looked around
at the clear blue sky, my
eyes lost sight of
my husband.

Ringing in my ears --
louder than our rotary dial telephone.
My eye fixated on one
piece of metal flying through
the air, over the heads of children,
over flags, and
severed bodies.

All the way to Tom’s 59 year old body,
slicing his right leg open
faster than light.

A cloud of coughing
consumed by lungs
causing air to be
trapped in my windpipe.

EMT personnel
ran over to all the injured bystanders;
faster than I’ve ever seen
anyone sprint.

Through one glance
I knew he wasn’t okay.
With panic in his eyes
he searched for me.

Within the chaos I
looked for hope.
Hope was right past
the finish line.