Somebody's Son

"Without a doubt,

I can go the distance,"

the racer shouted confidently,

evidently having never felt resistance

greater than the weight

of his own fresh, green

posterior.

Men and women of far superior

constitution and grit

had been ejected, with little more

than a chew and a spit,

from that there hellish course.

Divorced from their willpower

and robbed of their souls,

they showered

the road of rock, soil and roots

with their blood and their sweat.

Ever and anon, effort begets

decimation and regret

for those with a debt

of pain to pay.

Heavyset,

mind, body and soul soaking wet

with liquid deadweight,

we shuffle along

with our karmic freight

strapped to our belts,

its mass forming welts

on our backs.

We drag and we drag

until we plead for the ax,

laying bare our rusted napes

to the jeers and japes

of a bloodthirsty crowd.

Isn't it all

just a little too loud?

So he cues the silence,

or the deafening hum

of heavy rain,

or whatever it takes.

Noise-cancelling headphones

built into his brain

just for days when the stakes

get high,

like he sometimes wishes he could.

Then all the distractions

and hate split like wood

for the fire of his unearthly desire.

Teeth grinding, heart pounding,

stomach turning,

what a shame —

he's somebody's son.

But, if it takes him forever,

he'll get it done.