Pace Setter

In the bloodhound
raw mouth
night sweats
of this year's cross-country,
we round the hedgerow
by the rectangular dirt pit
where teachers mark shotput and javelin
and a weight lifts
from my back.
We have slipped from their view.
We are figments, givens.

There is a shortcut;
a tunnel through brambles
like a mouth at full scream
like a hole seared through flesh
with a hot poker.
The boy ahead of me is
lean, with teeth
that have grown faster
than his head. He lurches
left as if yanked
off-stage by a walking stick.

I hedge too long;
the tunnel's gone.

I turn - he is clattering
the cheat's route, prow down,
hands cupping hips.
He'll beat me, despite
all those years of crafty status fags.
I've trained and strained my lungs
but my heart still lags.