Poetry

To Stephen Edgar, on his sixtieth birthday

One of us wins the race, a length, a nose, War Admiral behind us sucking dust, let it be close. Fitting it is and just, and let me play Sea Biscuit at the close. At every race you win, I leap and cheer, tipple my flask and tip my ribboned hat to the colt blanketed in roses that steams in his stable as the flashbulbs near. A fantasy: we’re aging stallions now, our races long behind us but our seed treasured by trainers who have mares to breed. Neither of us was harnessed to the plough.  

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