The Race Horse
To the people who own
The people who sit in the high clubhouse seats
Wearing blue blazers and big frilly hats
Drinking champagne from plastic glasses
Talking of scandals In Kentucky, Virginia, or Park Avenue
The race horse is but a commodity
Something to buy and to sell and brag about owning
Then when they are done, to dispose of
Without even a thought or a moments hesitation
But, to the groom, the hot walker, the exercise rider
The racehorse is real with hair and bone and blood in its veins
And a heart as big as the world that makes the horse run
‘till that heart almost explodes.
These are the people who rise every dark morning
And take loving pride care
And are there with big proudness
Whether he wins or he loses.
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