Moving up Salisbury Road
with some sunshine showing inside,
the bus coming out of town
at this time of morning
is almost empty.
Strolling down the hill is Carl
with his hair surfeit
and the mere patch of face.
A medal hangs from his neck
two days since the games began.
It serves as an amulet
warding off those clouds
of indignant flies
respectable lungs blow out.
His perfect ease won't give away
that secret victory. He keeps it
in closed, cupped, imagined hands.
We carry on up to the village,
going the wrong way slowly
with nothing as golden to show.