Ready to Run

You don't remember them the way I do:
Distastefully attired, ready to run
In sweat clothes, not the colour of the sun
But brighter, shinier, not even new,
Their faces covered with an orange stew
Of perspiration, bits of hot cross bun,
And perfume hiding odours that would stun
A buffalo and turn a scared skunk blue.

I loved the way they were oblivious
To almost everything put in their path,
The way they said they'd maybe take a bath
When people stopped making such a damn fuss
About their track suits; how they smiled at us
While running swiftly towards the Day of Wrath.