the knowing

in an airport
on the afternoon
of a marathon,
I love to guess
who the runners are
sometimes,
it’s easy
a jacket
or t-shirt
is the tell
or a limp
or a hat
or a smile
of satisfaction
(and occasionally, a medal
though this is embarrassing)
but the clear
confirmation
is the eyes
they may be framed
with skin burned pink
by the sun
or encircled
with dark fatigue
but they are always
always
sharp
sparkling with light
crackling with energy
shining with purpose