Here you are, standing haughty-eyed, jaunty-hipped.
Through to the limestone bones of your arrogant legs
you have the X-factor preserved in muscled marble.
Pert buttocks pose in hardened faux-fabric tunic folds
which a plaque calls your 'xystis'. I’ll choose my own
pronunciation. Your toil is over, your race won:
fame forever. Well done.

My xystis is a crumpled apron. My chariot a pram.
My existence is my children, who swarm the museum.
I sweat to think they might touch something
of your white antiquity. Hooded eyes and aching hips
frame sagging flesh to form my victory stance. 
And pert buttocks?  After three kids, not a chance.

Why would I want to be statued anyway?
Who would seek paralysis through petrifaction
to be stared at in blindness everyday?
I only get turned to stone for transgressing.
Enjoy your pillar of salt. This Iodame lives
and demands not stone, but fire.

Conversation wtih the Motya Charioteer was published as the third placed entry in the 2023/2024 RC Sherriff Trust ‘Fame’ competition.