on this spit, a rotisserie chicken ~ Friday, September 5, 2025

Roasting! Marinating in my own sweat
on our bed, in my pajamas, I sleep
after a long run, too tired to shower
since I missed the first twelve weeks, in my debt
the honor to race in a marathon
insanity runs in my family, weep
not for immigrant children, our power
gains from the poison flowing in our veins

Mother knows nothing about when I'm gone
ask me why I'm late for the Metra train
restless with morning commuters, Red Line
insanity runs in my family, gain
nothing as an outsider with no spine
argue and quarrel with squirrels, such pains
taken to run and race for a decade
in pain, tired, no energy in bed
nobility in my Portuguese name
gain power from the poison as I fade

invisible as I walk past, no one
no recognition, no honor, instead

meaningless self-importance, what is fame
yolk in my face, yellow as the sun, roast

on this spit, a rotisserie chicken
winning the race, only once, in high school
no one comes from behind except a bear

sweet is victory, even once, too cool
welcome memories of success to share
even sugar tastes like salt on burnt toast
experience of enlightenment paints
traffic lights pink, black and blue, gender feints