The figure on the trophy
lifts its arms for as long
as its soft, shiny metal
will last. It doesn’t know
what it celebrates. Trophies
are good that way—entirely
disinterested. They’re
unambitious; manufactured.
They weren’t able to hear
the cheers. At landfills they
break apart gracefully.
Hans Ostrom
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/first-place-2/
