Open Letter to Uncle Ashraf and Popa Shakes

Dear Uncle Ashraf,

As June 6 approaches, I wonder,

Who are you?

In my dreams you approach me,

7 feet, 8 inches.

Your mustache grows outward,

then towards me.

It envelops me,

I scream,

Awake,

Temples drenched.

By day, when I run, my feet no longer hit the ground to the gentle

"one-two, one-two."

Rather, they send up a taunt:

"Un-cle, Ash-raf, Un-cle, Ash-raf."

There are so many myths attached to your name, and I cannot separate fact
from fiction.

Is it true you clobbered the field in last year's 5k?

Is it true you can move mountains with a shake of your mustache?

+ + +

And "Popa Shakes,"

Why do you send your towering sons to mock me with their "questions?"

Am I not a man? If you cut me, do I not squeal like a little girl?

+ + +

Perhaps you ladies would care to join me for a real race?