the race horse wet
with sweat and mud from
the circle of fire that he
sprinted on
lumbers in a hard limp
to the barn,
a last race to be won,
or lost. the gamblers
in the stand tear
their ticket stubs in half,
waving with both hands
at the track.
green fields await,
perhaps, if he heals,
if there is money to see
him through
those golden years, those
mythical foggy
days ahead.
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