Backstretch Tales
He sat there sucking on his unlit calumet.
An old Black—man reciting tales of racetrack epithet.
His cap jauntily tilted to one side with flair.
Long slender fingers like those of a pianist’s pair.
Safe in his world of bridles bits and racing tack.
Resting his head on a padded chair—back.
Remembering horses like Citation and Whirlaway
and mean spirited Kelso and Northern Dancer the little grey.
Talk of trainers races and failed sure tips.
While I rolled a stray piece of straw between my lips.
That shedrow floor raked and spotlessly clean inside.
Shanks and halters all carefully hung and oiled with pride.
The modern South of greed did not exist for him.
Once racing was a serious sport and not just a passing whim
for foolish people who couldn’t spell “hoss” in his home dialect
all these new—wealthy folk burning up-money with just no respect.
His eyelids drooping as he reminisced of Aiken and palmettos
expensive cars and gamblers with their women in fancy clothes.
I squatted there amid the fading visions and dancing moonbeams
listening to the sound of cicadas gently applauding both our dreams.
© By Zyskandar A. Jaimot On
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