Kings and Peasants; By: Ciara Bowen
When I stand at the rail
I can’t help but overhear
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
And dirt flies.
They don’t want to recognize
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.