The Sprinter

The bathroom was occupied.

He went back
to the bar.

He said
he could wait.

There was no way
I could.

Not after
that
many beers.

When I finished
and flushed
and came back out,
he was running,
sprinting
as if the cops were trying
to murder him.

"Was that your friend?"
asked the bartender.

"I don't like
black people,"
was my response.

I saw the puddle
he left.

His piss
glistened
on the floor
and the bar
and everyone's eyes.

It made the night brighter.

I finished my beer
and decided to send him
a text saying,
well I now know how
you train
for the Olympics
and what it takes

to be a champion.