There’s an artist who lives on the street 
behind me, a woman who paints the lawn 
jockeys they sell at Keeneland.
Evenings, she works her magic on the patio, 
leaves the statues to dry overnight.

At daybreak, I head outside for a run, 
eager to survey whatever scene will unfold 
before me – small men scattered 
across the grass, standing on tables, posed
and frozen in various states of undress. 

I like to imagine they’ve been partying
late into the night, like garden gnomes 
who wait for darkness before they spring to life.
The mischievous glint in a ceramic eye 
suggests they’ve been up to shenanigans.

A few of them face off, fists raised to fight 
in a front-yard brawl. Others seem to shiver, 
pale and ashamedly shirtless, their torsos 
pasty, heads probably pounding, lucky 
they’ve managed to find their breeches.

But a handful are well-rested, nattily dressed
in bright reds and blues, alert and ready to race.
They all stand at attention in one neat row,
chins up, arms lifted to herald the rising sun
which shines so bright on old Kentucky.