Thoroughbreds
by Ross Plovnick
 
Gamble on their prance
            and snort, the firmness
                        of their fire.
 
Even the odds,
            not rational or clear.
                        At the window
 
a fleet exchange of green
            then pocket ticket, time
                        to second guess.
 
Bugle sounds, the proud
            march to the post.
                        Into the gate, the bell
 
and out like flash
            you see and stand in awe
                        how many lives ago
 
the first fish gained
            the strength to crawl
                        on land
 
on infant legs
            who could have dreamed
                        would lead to thoroughbreds.

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