To My Trophy

You’re much better than I

for you only know the accomplishments of glory and fame.

You’ll never have to understand the pain that comes with failure.           

You’ll never even know about being second best

perched, as you are, so high above me.

You stare me down, with your hard etched expression.

Granted, your form is impeccable;

not even Phelps nor Lochte could match your perfect physique.                

But did it very occur to you 

that you take yourself too seriously,  

gloating over your record, your insistent victory?

  Face it, you were made for first place.

 Not even the miners of ’49 could find fool’s gold

 as real as the one that covers you.

And you’re so incredibly crafted that no one

could tell that, underneath,

you’re just cheap plastic.

So with knees bent, your body braced,

you steel yourself against

whatever challenge may face you.

I’m glad that I happened upon you once again

because it’s given me cause to contemplate

the difference between you and me.

See, I can move into the future,

while you, rigid, immobile, dated,

are forced to live in the past.

And, set so far in the clouds,

you lose track of what life is actually like

down here on earth.

You see, second place isn’t so bad.

Only there do you find the real desire to win,

and the absolute abhorrence for loss.

And only those who’ve intimately, or repeatedly, known second place,

understand the meaning of being number one.

 And that is where I live,

 with desire in my eyes,

wanting and fighting for more.

While all you can do is blankly stare back

with those golden, glazed eyes.