My Vocal Race

If I bought a lottery ticket and gave them my numbers

I'd have a hope to win or else it's throwing money away, right?

I'd watch the drawing, or whatever it is, online

Clutching fast the tickets

And from the time I bought the ticket until the numbers were drawn.

I'd have been rich.

If I ran a race, well I'd never do that in the shape I'm in

But if I trained and was disciplined and fit, by some miracle,

I would run and pace myself knowing that the finish line was my goal

And likely pour on speed the closer I got to it,

Crossing the line would be a victory even if I came in last.

Finishing would mean I'd won.

I've been a line cook and dishwasher for pay, although not much pay,

I've learned how to debone a chicken and clean a meat slicer,

I've been taught by women half my age the 'right' way to shell an egg,

I've hired, fired, coached, and counseled.

I've been part-time and been a director with a promised bonus.

None of those labels defined my success.

I married for escape, redemption, completion, and later married for love.

I've cooked and cleaned out of duty, as a distraction, and release from fear.

I've sung to my siblings, my God, and to put my babies to sleep.

I've sewed to create beauty and because I couldn't afford new.

I've cried out of terror, frustration, rage, joy, and pity.

The meaning of my actions sometimes unknown even to myself.

These day I write when I should be sleeping, cleaning, weeding, resting.

Jot down half-realized topics and sentences, for use some other later-on.

I puzzle trying to decode what would garner approval and win recognition

Chasing fleeting digital fame and that online big payout.

And from the time I submit the words until the winners are announced

I have been rich.

Like the tickets I don't buy, the challenges I enter don't pay my bills.

Both the imagined and the real, the same frizzle of anticipation in waiting,

The same hope and weighing of odds.

Like the race I have yet to run I know the prize I now receive from writing

Isn't a thing I can frame, wear, or place on a shelf.

It's the stretching of my limits and the prize of I Have Tried.