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Olympics

Leaning into the wind, head strap
held taut a man passes hauling
a twenty kilo load. Then another man,
and another, turn the corner, climbing
the hill to the city, the same loads
and straps, and then midst relays
of burlap wood, burlap, an oversized cabinet, the whites of the porter's eyes
bleary with the weight the strain
the sweat, this porter leaning into traffic
outlasting them all, and then,
from nowhere, without burlap,
wood, or dresser, but strap in hand,
kneeling in a dead heat
     peering through his Nikon,
          zooming…
               my double,
a tourist,
                     lost and last
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