by Wynn Everett
The depressions of my brain
etched by keratin hoof
in cerebral dirt –
track, 1957.
My father –
horns hidden by Dobbs, scales under Mcalls;
commission of a salesman –
clenching hard to hard luck.
Myself in short pants and
fumbling feet.
I followed him. Up.
Toes, teetering, mocking the bench.
Tiny Loafers idolizing White bucks,
and, they were off!
Renegade and Bold Ruler
beating the turf,
the stomach of Belmont.
My chest pounding,
unlike the six o’clocks
of eight years of evenings.
I squeezed the program –
with the creature by my side,
an echo of the whip on skin not my own,
this equus-belt.
Dedicate behind
head and head with Gallant
turning for home
Bold Ruler advancing the stretch.
Gallant and Dedicate, up through the rail,
four beasts knowing the stake –
my legs, ribs, my back.
And the three leveled off another 16th of a mile where
Dedicate took the lead –
my October savior.
The nine-time loser, in his win of my year,
ran not for the line –
but for the hand of my father,
resting gently, the first time,
on my head

0 thoughts on “Dedicate

  1. This poem deserves comments. It is a victory song that tells me to do my best. Not out of some sense of competition or achievement but because my best might save someone else the worst.

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