racetrack

i used to make
love with a woman
who went by the
name of sheila,
up on a hill
overlooking the
glow of a harness
racetrack in maryland,
back in the early
nineteen seventies.
we maybe had a
blanket, a bottle
of cheap wine,
and that was it.
and as the horses
galloped around
the dust bowl
of a track,
and with the stars
somewhere above
the haze of a
clouded light, we
listened to
the hooves pound
the ground, the crack
of whips, the
roar of the small
but vocal crowd,
half under with beer,
their small dreams
riding on a ticket
stub, we would find a
way with each
other that was both
fast and as
as furious and empty
as the race
was itself.