Mo Jo Like a Mo Fo.

Dawson, Erica

Now come on Dover, move your bloomin' ass.
How marvelous the ladies' necks don't break
Beneath their weighty Preakness hats; a speck
Of sweat--Darling, your hankie? At the pass

The Audrey heads turn right just as the lap
Relapses and the bear's on Dover's back.
Circling a wet morass itself, the track
Coughs mud--They're kicking now!--and jockeys snap

The whips across the flanks. Penultimate
In the trifecta, Dover, go. Down front,
The heads adroitly grow to one high stunt
Chapeau with quill, petal, and a parapet-

Like brim. Dear Ladies Baltimore, do we hear
The hooves' pursuit? They tumble, low,
Like final breaths of another Pimlico.
A friar bird dismembered by a deer?

More the ignis fatuus of this neighborhood:
Bad circumstance with ceremony, pomp
In PAWN! brown bag, $5 Scotch, and stomp-
Jackhammer rhythms? In it, Dover would

Be Pegasus and jet the Mobil sign.
Our Revlon lips would form its O, and noble
Equestrians would be, with all their global
Births, just small jockeys standing on the pine-

Laced Anne Arundel lawns. The shadows loom
A step behind where, closing in, the seconds--
As hints of trace assume their place--are seconds.
The sod, mud, pass, and all the finishes bloom.