The Dog Race

I was born at the dog race

on a cold bleacher seat.

Umbilical to birth’s source

was when I first heard

the sound of a gun.

 

Shock opened my eyes

and the first thing

those virgins ever saw

were snouts

crossing the line.

 

In the years since

the dogs have circled

too many times

to keep with my count.

I can now only deduce

that God gave ten digits

with a purpose.

 

Their intentions

never made sense

until understood

from behind.

Opening blinds

bring in heaven’s

serpent tongue.

 

They rabidly race

with a bleeding vigor

that I must admit

sings to my Achilles soul.

 

They tell of what it takes

for each spirit

to become undone;

that it’s not only me

but that we’re

all babies

with only days between.

 

I am still today

on the same

cold bleacher seat,

and the dogs are yet

to finish their race.

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