by Meryl Stratford
This race is to the fleetest of the fleet,
rushing headlong toward the finish line,
the one who thunders past on fragile feet.
Every time she raced she would repeat
her easy victory, just having fun.
The race is to the fleetest of the fleet.
She looked like a movie star, ready to greet
her fans, in her jet-black coat with her wind-blown mane,
galloping like a gazelle on dainty feet.
Everyone wanted to see if she could beat
the best of the boys, fight for the lead and win.
The crown is for the fleetest of the fleet.
Foolish Pleasure and Ruffian would meet,
and a startled bird, and the fatal flaw in her genes,
that mix of thunderous speed and fragile feet.
Then she lay in a dark hole under a sheet,
dead to pain’s panic and shattered bone,
she who thundered by on flying feet.
What grace was hers, the fleetest of the fleet!