Under Bridges

Humility,

some call it virtue

or a black labs slow crawl across the floor

moving one paw at a time slowly

towards you dragging its belly

with a merciful look in its big brown eyes

that never leaves your gaze,

a soldier deep in the muddy trenches

looking down a barrel of point blank

yearning for something warm,

a handshake, a hug, maybe

a bowl of soup.

Some, I think—pin it on their chest.

The chest they had wished for,

the one they think they have,

head so high their sites are thin,

a mild form of chimera.

Has this ever happened to you,

you’ve worked on something

all your life, honed it to perfection

quiet in your confidence like a farmer

who counts his eggs, measured by the number of hens,

then on the day of victory an unknown runner

comes into the race only to break the ribbon first.

We tell our kids everyone is a winner,

we all get a trophy, submit—

then send them out to win a poetry prize.