Leftovers

Location

I find it difficult to run for numbers these days.
I go out to cross the finish line, I pat myself on the back
simply for making it through. The people I love
watch me and not watches, they offer their supportive shoulders
when my legs drag and my lungs dry-heave.
I feel most treasured midweek, on bus rides to Wednesday meets
where leftovers get stuffed when unwanted, refrigerated
raw and uncut.
Those teammates who love me most
cheer and chant my name on weeknights without wasting
time on time and place. I want my brothers to see
I’ve spent years smearing dirt on my face,
I want them to see I feel alive and enough
simply by running round and round
in intimate circles with the people I love

This poem is about: 
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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