Tying my lace. Running in place. Put my shoes in the blocks like a mag in a Glock. Hammer is cocked, hair trigger, tick tock. Itchy ear, wants to hear, that starter pistol talk. Not so fast, you’re not your best, another race, another quest. Another opportunity to fall flat on your face, or in a glass-half-empty way, another fall from grace, or in my race analogy, a finish in last place? Trying not to trip and trying not to fall, I never read the manual on how to win it all. I never read the rules on how to stack my chips. I never seem to be all in when the right card hits. Always seem to fold my hand and say, “The hell with it.” A fool. A joker. I don’t even play poker. I don’t play rounds of golf with the boys from the city. I’m an Itty bitty flea on a donkey’s ass – shitty! Stinky, kinky, rinky-dinky, everything but kitchen sinky. To bitch about, to shout and pout. Santa don’t come ’cause I run my mouth. Santa don’t care ’cause he ain’t real. Jesus I’ll shift if you take the wheel. I’ve drank too much and shouldn’t drive. Please sew shut my weary eyes. And stick my head neck-deep in sand, way beneath the firm-a-ment. All the men who have success can’t be feeling my duress. I’ve tried to win but came up lose.
I just can’t run in concrete shoes.