Summer stood at its peak
On that airless racing day
Already unbearable, only in May
Causing salty sweat to pearl on every cheek.

The crush of warm bodies
Only made things worse
Layering, and clinking like coins in a purse
Just to catch a glimpse of the jockeys.

The speckled grey mare
With no real chance at all
Stood, waiting in the centre stall
With only the vacant air to hold her stare.

She might prompt pity
In a tender heart amongst the crowd
Who sees in her, untapped hope never said aloud.
An underdog or something else meaningful and gritty.

It might be crass
Some think to say
To have them all pay
To see the ghost of a dream, hollowed out like glass.

The question fades
As the time draws near
Faces contort into something resembling fear
Pointed, and still like a sharpened blade.

Would it matter if no horses dream at all?
Shame is easier to understand than never having hope from which to fall.

-Maya Zaida