A helicopter chops a potentate
across the skies. Below, on Racecourse Road,
the guys assist their girlfriends to unload
the champagne chicken breakfasts that they ate.
The ladies totter on, discarding heels.
Tomorrow is a work day, but tonight
can fill with memories of silky flanks,
of whispered promises and urgent thanks,
of dreams that everything will be all right
with only mildly compromised ideals.
Tomorrow’s paper will remind us which
horse won, re-run the whole race stride by stride,
reminding all how nearly they were rich,
but nothing really happened. No one died.