I wait with the others, we toe the line,
we wait for the starter's pistol, a horn,
as good a substitute as a gun blast,
in the interim, we listen to songs,
to someone sing the national anthem,
we take off our caps, a sign of respect,
is this really a symbol of respect,
to bare and bow our heads, to sing along,
holler as we do at the end, the phrase
"the home of the brave," somehow makes us cheer,
home is anywhere I can rest my head,
even "the land of the free," chokes us up,
only, I do not feel free in this land,
to criticize, perhaps, freely, yes, true,
however, this land was never my home,
even though, I rest my head here, yes, true,
really, I am the son of immigrants,
simply never given the choice to leave,
we toe the line before the race, runners,
every man, woman, and child for themselves,
this is a road race, not a sinking ship,
on that note, as runners, competition
elicits empathy for the fallen,
to help each other get back up and run,
humans remain compassionate, humane,
even in the chaos of a road race,
lip service is all I choose to offer,
if I kneel, in respect for the fallen,
no one would respect that sign of respect,
even if, my one brother were shot dead.
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