You run with your shoulders
higher than your ears. Your neck
points your eyes at that beautiful colour
and that beautiful colour and that beautiful colour.
Your feet are hooves, ice skates, a slow winter.
Your fingers point at the four corners
with intent, the crowd want you there.
Your skin is a singlet; pink and green Lycra
ricocheting off walls you forget you can see
desperate to move forward, desperate
to get thicker.
© Carl Burkitt 2021