weeks left, week left;
and he’s crying, “after sunday it’ll be over”,
because he’s praying while he weeps
on the floor of the chapel, calling out
the name of a man they had all thought
he’d forgotten. months left, month left,
and everyone’s crying, crying,
“i’m ready to go home”, but they
no longer know when sunday is and where
to pray to cry, where to laugh to lose,
and all of us have forgotten how to win
because each checkered flag waves
a noose in its wake.

weeks left, week left,
months left month left
days day da d …

he bites on his gold medal
while we climb the flagpole.
chipped teeth.