Race Weekend Purgatory

And we’re waiting for Carlberg’s cake

at the deli counter in the Wichita Falls Super-Walmart

The leg I had shifted all my weight onto starts to tremble

And 40-weight tiredness drips down my body

The lady behind the counter bites her lip and

grips the tube of yellow sugary frosting

Her partner’s white hairnet cartoon cloud frames the disclaimer

“We ain’t no cake decorators”

A skittle smeared child rolls on the tiled floor nearby

Three times his haggard mama tells him to get up

The carmel colored floor looks like a good place for a nap

and my eyelids pause closed in the middle of a blink

I fantasize about a shower and wonder

Am I coated with sand?

Am I the only one who can smell

my salty funk of a hard day of racing?

Or does it radiate from my pits

and announce my presence

like an offensive cloud

of unbathed radioactivity?

Zane and I

Suspended in the purgatory

between today’s road race and time trial

and tomorrow’s crit

A pain sandwich with yellow frosting