The Truth About Tigers

Now and then, in traffic,
or sipping tea at home,
it strikes me—this race
is likely halfway run.

Who’s to say? We pace blind,
never knowing the final distance,
which makes strategy
a bit of a joke.

Maybe I’m still in the first third,
time enough to jog, to breathe,
to save the sprint for later.
Or maybe the last lap’s begun,
and here I am, strolling
when I should be surging.

Without sudden omnipotence,
all I can do is play the odds—
hope that forty-one is somewhere
near midcourse,
or not,
and feel my feet
where they land.