At the starting line,
we’re all rabid.

We’re Meredith,
bitten by a bat
out of the break room.

Thirty seconds into the race,
we’re all Stanley,
working out
a way to avoid
running for a stupid cause.

A thousand miles in—
give or take—
we’re solid as a rock.

We’re Toby,
plugged up and ready
for the next four thousand.

As we run
against our will,
we are Kevin.

We’re all sweating through
our long-sleeve polyester.

As we slow down,
we’re carrying a lamp like Jim. Walking,
we realize we’re having
a nice day.

We’re cute as a button,
cuter than the squirrel
Darrell feeds,
happier even,
maybe insane.

As we finish the imperfect
circle, we are undoubtedly
our boss.

We’re the fettuccini alfredo
making its comeback,
going for the gold.

Stephen Pisani writes and works at a golf course, where he watches people chase a little ball around a big patch of grass.