Again, we are waiting,
hands in our pockets,
shuffling our weight
from one foot to the other.
The first runners have not
yet passed. We stand,
dumb as traffic cones,
somehow not noticing
that we could cheer
at any moment and
for any thing, not just
for the runners, though
they are the reason
we’ve come, but why not clap
for this very afternoon,
for the suggestion of clouds,
for the hedges vigorous and green,
for the sun that shows up
every day because
that is what it does.