while we are watching from the infield.
Drinking dirt julips in strangers suits and ties.
Grace is crying. The ladies with the birds
on their heads would always get more attention
from the mud faced man. The one that she loves.
Covered in dust and cigar ash. That must have fallen down
from the box seats with the rain. Only cigarettes breathe down here.
Piles of white tickets, clutched and then forgotten
with the flash of a bulb. Black numbers adding up to
bus fare at best.
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