the derby

by Steven J. Serafiani

to the timpani in your head,
the samba in your chest,
switch up the dread,
their for naught,
cruise at a different altitude,
to the beaming candle votive,
the wick deep down,
put down that sourdough,
leave it on the phillistines counter,
head to the deli,
the one with variety,
where patrons don’t patronize,
but ask you your name,
buzz baby,
brim like on the hat on that man who just got lucky,
given a billfold through a cage at the track,
then sits down next to the blonde in the fascinator,
shouts to the crowd,
“My horse came in!”
be him,
be them,
be it,
cause to be it is to be the meringue’s lemon.