"Marathon Man" by Sam Campbell
Marathon Man
I’m not exactly sure what happened.
I’ve got ashes on my tongue,
smoke in my lungs,
and a somebody on my fingertips.
When lost, it’s helpful to retrace steps.
The December morning was clear;
Cheshire moon amidst a palette of blue
smirked down as I drove into Gatlinburg.
The slopes’ empty fresh powder:
sky-sent, not manmade.
Lured up the black diamond,
I slice my way back down. Repeat.
The afternoon sun summered.
I fell trying to get fancy
going backwards down Bear.
I lay sweating in the ice.
On my way home, at Marathon #135053
to fill up and grab a coffee,
flavored just enough to mask the taste,
the guy behind the counter
struck up a conversation.
Smiles were shared,
compliments exchanged for blushes
and laughs for the brushing of hands.
Which is all good and well, except
I can’t remember how paying for gasoline
led into swapping spit in the back room.
All I can think about is his ashtray
mouth and how the hell
do I get myself in these situations?
How the hell do I get out?
The tinkle of the entryway bell
alerts him to another customer.
I take to the fountain for a drink
to wash down the secondhand nicotine.
We exchange a glance before I go.
He doesn’t charge me for the Pepsi.
Photo Credit: 5eyed