It’s Tour de France time, and only those of you who watch the Tour will get this poem. It’s dedicated to Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen, who’ve been the primary commentators of the race for years.
TOUR DE MORNING
It’s a glorious day here in Fredericksburg
dare I say it, the prettiest portion of the hill country.
There’s our man, Smith, an absolute beast of a man
just putting it in gear this morning.
And he has a formidable task in front of him—
to wake up. My goodness me.
He is wearing the mask of pain as he struggles to emerge from his bed.
He’s gone a bit pear-shaped
completely and utterly exhausted from yesterday’s effort.
That crash yesterday nearly did him in.
Bridge to the engine room—more power! But more power isn’t coming.
He’s cracked! Look at him. He’s in a spot of bother, I’m afraid.
Wait. He’s sitting up now. He’s turned himself inside out!
He must not panic at a time like this!
Look at him! I can’t believe it! He’s standing!
It’s like he appeared from out of nowhere, like Harry Potter taking off his invisibility cloak.
Yes! He’s up! Look out for the charge of the light brigade!
He’s walking now, tapping out a rhythm!
Oh, my! Look at him! He’s a cat among the pigeons!
That’s what I love about this man! He dug deep into his suitcase of courage
and now he’s about to give the performance of his life as he breaks away
far from the maddening crowd
into the kitchen