It's April. We're watching the marathon
(switched from the Sox, down big to Baltimore)
at the Red Hat Pub, sequestered from the sun.

Acadia's working hard: lunch has begun.
Some noontime souse would like "maybe one more"
this Monday of the hallowed marathon.

Stella Artois for me. I'm not alone:
beside me sits a fascinating bore,
a barfly hiding from the summery sun.

First runner to finish among the men?
American! Elated voices roar!
Today, Boston's reclaimed her marathon.

Acadia's perplexed by all this fun:
the merest thought of running makes her sore!
She keeps us regulars from the wincing sun

until they've crowned and medalled those who won.
Soon, I catch her eye: "Check, please, mon amour!"
I pay my tab. I've watched the marathon
at the old Red Hat. Once more, I face the sun.