Melt down the golden medals and distribute on PayPal.

Forget the roadside run from Fukushima with the torch.

Postpone a year for Covid fear, stay home or on the porch.

One hundred twenty days of running with the cursed flame.

And through the meltdown site as if it were part of a game.

News sources say the current flame’s already been blown out.

They relit with a backup torch. It’s what it’s all about.

And do we need proof now the world knows how to run and swim?

In many places folks can’t even get into a gym.

For those who’ll sit at home to see who stays inside their lane,

the process and expenditure are not seen as insane,

but morale boosters showing our conventions must sustain.

Somewhere inside, an old Greek gene is nagging at the brain.

It’s just a game, without intent, to minimize the pain,

an ancient entertainment we are told must never wane.

But, fifteen thousand athletes all gathered at this time

seems to reflect a state somewhere between nonsense and crime.

In twenty years, predictions have Olympic sites on Mars.

And, after that, Venusians may be dancing with the stars.