By William Gross
Meaningless encounters - I can count you by the dozen.
How prideful others are of their numbers - listen to them count so intimately.
They regalia their list with passion - almost humming the roaster.
Check off - names mark in a hue of Snapdragon.
Kissing, holding, broken.
Abasement they hide with flicking hearts.
As if the accumulation would ease their longing.
The dragon does roar for the what the soul cries.
I have run the race – I have crossed that line.
With just the grime of the track as a medal.
I’ve heard the cheering of the masses for the ongoing champ.
I've heard the roaring boos for his rival.
I’ve felt the silence that waited for me at the line.
I’ve seen the camera flashes,
Confided rain filled air,
Articles for the outstanding.
I know the empty stadium seats,
Half-eaten boxes of popcorn,
Spilt pop on the stands.
They watch me cross that line.
I've seen, heard, and know all these things
Yet, I will wait for the next race
In hopes for one sound – for one flash.
I will run with the grime medallion.