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Poem for a Young Man// Kay Middleton

Wearing competition's youthful red blazer
you set your path with promise.
It is only the win that matters
fair play, a clean start.
You polish the glass
that covers the diploma
spend hours selecting your course.

A circumstantial stumble
then a fall, you were pushed
and soon you are wearing a martyr's cloak
falling back on hard work
and eating sacrifice for lunch.
You begin to define everything
in terms of currency,
dollars and cents.

Next sarcasm's blades cut feelings
like the ragged edge of a distant planet.
The definition of winning
or value of self
second place is a platitude.
Framed certificates there to
cover old paint
line your walls.

Aging you cannot sleep a full night.
Worry over your bank balance
haunts
like skunks breath
mesmerized by the figures
you have not enough
begets never enough.
Young man, old man
your path has not gone awry
this is the one you chose.