ISSN 1758-6488
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Real Estate Poetry |
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The Race Field
September 11th, 2008
*
A Transit towing a load of furlong markers
whose tracks, the farther it goes, grow fainter.
*
A tractor and a harrow preparing sand
to plant and harvest before the tide turns.
*
On the Race Field gate, that lovely extra s -
mulled over and gone with - in Horses Boxes.
*
Punters eyeing the horizon, like fishermen;
The fishermen, fishing offshore, study form.
*
Neck and neck on the straight for home,
our hands touch; They have lives of their own.
*
No wind; Or no wind worth mentioning;
And still the VIP marquee billowing.
*
He drives the final furlong and digs a hole
that the sea fills, for the final furlong pole.
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