I will remember when I complain
of my aching feet,
my seemingly disconnected joints,
those tiny porters
(miniature gods)
who didn’t have the money
to go to the fancy running store
and have their strides analyzed,
buying new sneakers
for $100 to relieve the
pounding of pavement on soles (souls)

I will remember when I complain
the three overstuffed backpacks
they each strapped to their narrow backs,
the recycled tires
that didn’t cover the exposed soles (souls)
on their small, Peruvian feet,
the cans of propane and three dozen eggs
they carried in each hand
as they raced up the mountain
in front of us tired tourists,
setting up twenty tents, hot tea, and cookies
before any of us could make
half a step up the million along the Inca trail.

I will remember when I complain
that this is easy,
that anyone could run a half marathon,
that the weight I carry will never match
the burden of poverty
that pushes them beyond human strength
to the top of the mountain,
to the ruins famous worldwide,
to the place where we should all be equal,
where history plus nature creates a masterpiece,
the place where our souls (soles) may rest.