Who longs, as the finest silk ought

To leave go all the soft-touch

To join the rugged from the far-reaches of the closet

To assume the trudge daily through crystal-cold streams 

A bandera, of sorts

Rambling top speed, East to West, then Eastward again, down an unattended-to thoroughfare

The most subtle of beacons guiding the eager to new heights

Then, after God-willed extra innings

To be the edges of the seat, rounding third wide, photo finish, face first slide into home