Golden Frown

When it's cold I stumble upon comfort,
looking to my right,
to see ten trophies with golden smiles.
Each one, 
physically my youth,
early on the continuum that some call life.
It struck me,
though they shine,
though they are golden,
they all have the same face.
The same blank expression,
merely forcing a smile.
Doing a job, although statuesque,
working all the same.
Kicking a jagged metal ball through life.
In some ways they look like they are dancing,
with a golden smile.
Painted on the outside,
those troopers,
those little golden men on my empty bookshelf,
tell the story of a win.
Those damn statues,
show an ill- feited image.
I wish they could speak.
Then they could tell me how I won.



.