Solaccolade

Don’t ask me to confess my deeds. They’re mine.
Admission means to let another in,
An expectation truly asinine,
Like athletes sharing credit for a win.
Whose legs could those have been, if not my own?
Whose breast thrust forth to break the waiting tape?
The runner claims the victory alone;
Round one neck only does the medal drape.
They mouth the well-rehearsed “my team” cliches,
But in the end the credit and the blame
Are property of they who claim the praise
As cosigned by the crowds who praise the claim.
So long as I’m the only one aware
Of what I’ve done, I won’t be asked to share.