Kings and Peasants; By: Ciara Bowen

When I stand at the rail

I can’t help but overhear

Conversations

Conversations about the next race,

Conversations about bets,

Conversations about past performances.

I look over and see a motley crew.

Young and old.

Plain and sophisticated.

Smart and yet dumb.

These people don’t see

What really goes on.

They don’t see “behind” the gate.

Only before it.

Instead of looking at the people

They only see the names they think matter.

They see the jockey who maneuvers,

The trainer who fine-tunes,

The owner who drops the money.

What of the stable-workers?

The grooms who brush, feed, clean?

The hot walkers who cool the horses out?

The exercise rider who gets thrown?

The agent who’s always on the phone?

These people, the ones I overhear,

Don’t care about everything

That goes on.

They only want to see

Colors flash by them as

Hooves pound

And dirt flies.

They don’t want to recognize

Everyone.

If the names aren’t at the

Top of the line.

If they aren’t Zenyatta or Secretariat,

Calvin Borel or Mike Smith,

Bob Borel or Steve Asmussen,

These people don’t care.

They call this the sport of kings.

But even kings recognize the peasants.

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Posted on March 7, 2012, in Ciara Bowen, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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