Off to the Races

An exploration of vice, regret and mirth.

Like the mildew of a bushy lucky charm
The equestrian baby blew up the alarm
Waiting silently all the day,
Just to see if it’d go away.
By night, at home, singing alone
In the day asleep, debilitated on drink
What once was fun, has become a bum
Or dumb numb luck.
To dance to the track, looking for crack,
An advance of 5 grand cash, smashed.
Grey geese are on the field, killed
By shards of glassy grass. Liquid death.
One loop, two, three then four
20 more four score laps of lore.
Who is the enemy: the friend zone
Ebullient regret.
Dressed to impress in stockings,
not yet a mess, did you place your bet?
Before I go, may I have a float?
Root beer at least so me
Or you can watch the balloons
And fry frazzled in a cerulean dazzle.
Color. I want more color. A pasture
Abjures that which it abhors.
No to the dirt, to the mirth
less laughter that hurts.
Make me a poet I cannot refuse
And get me off to the races
That await me embracing.