by Samuel Fishman | Poetry | Spring 2019
If I ran a marathon,
you say, I would end up
like the guy in the Greek myth.
I would cross the finish line,
rejoice that I’d finished,
then drop dead.
You tighten your grip on the shot glass,
testing its frailty, its resistance to your stress.
know what’s going to happen before you
do, so I ask the bartender for a towel, a
couple of bandaids, rubbing alcohol, and
I would drop dead, you say, staring at
the front door. When it rattles on its
hinges, you’re so absorbed in its clatter
that you don’t notice your palm as it
splits across the countertop.