Sad to live in the horse capital of the world
and have nothing to do with horses.
It makes you feel left out,
prone to pretend you know who Oliver Lewis was
and why it’s called bluegrass
when the grass clearly isn’t blue
and why, on those cold misty mornings
when you can see the colts’ breath
as they gambol in the pasture on your right
as you drive downtown to your office,
you wonder what would happen
if you were that colt on your third birthday
with thousands of people watching
as you stand trembling at the gate,
ready to run.