by lisa pasold
1.
watching the horse racing in the Clamecy bar, can't smoke anymore
but there's a ghost of the way it's s'posed to smell
and across the street a man walks out of a grocery store.
he's got nothing in his hands. which seems
like how we all feel, some mornings.
we look at all those choices on the field, the dark horses
against the impossibly green greens of the television
and we walk out with nothing. can't be helped.
just the same, this man woke up and came out
with good intentions. I mean, I know he woke up. I have
a good feeling he woke up. and I can tell
from the way he's holding his empty hands
he would stake money on any bright horse this morning.
because he and I have a quality, yet undetermined,
not so easy to pin down, even from here. but it's a quality
worth looking into. gets me to thinking that the jockey silks
might get to be the right colour, a little later on today.
2.
I'm watching the horse racing in the Clamecy bar, can't smoke here anymore but there's a ghost of the way it's supposed to smell. and across the street a man walks out of a grocery store. he's got nothing in his hands. which seems like how we all feel, some mornings. we look at all those choices on the field, the dark horses against the impossibly green greens of the television and we walk out with nothing. can't be helped. we want to choose, we want to lay down our bets, but there's something holding us back, like a bit in the mouth, pulling in a way that's not the direction we want. just the same, despite this feeling, this man woke up, as I did, and came out, with good intentions. I mean, I know he woke up, I have a good feeling that he woke up. and I can tell from the way he's holding his empty hands, he would stake money on any bright horse this morning, and yet did not. because some mornings are simply that way, and there's nothing either of us can do. you see, he and I have that quality, not so easy to pin down, even from across the street.
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