Expensive cars, fancy cocktail dresses,
 rich laughs and opulent sirs in hat and suit.
 Handbag-sized dogs and smoke of cigars.
 People came here from the Netherlands.
 The polished license plates give it away.

Whimsical horse names:
 Scarlett Sunshine
 Eagle Emblem
 Gatsby Girl
 Lollipop
 Veneziana
 Mademoiselle Lilly
 Golden Passport

Not so glamorous whiplashes.
 Heat is burning, alcohol flowing.
 The smell of seafood and sweat in the air.
 Our ice cream cones melt away in the sun—
 and so are our bodies.

The jockeys, ironical giants:
 Perched high, they look like rulers,
 helmets shining, goggles fierce.
 Yet once the race is over,
 and the gear is stripped away,
 there stand mere boys,
 hardly past sixteen,
 crumbling under thousands of eyes
 and the weight of pressure,
 their faces still carrying
 the shy softness of childhood.

Victory screams split the crowd,
 while losers lower their heads
 like wilting flowers.

We placed our bet on horse no. 3:
 Astoria.
 She's dark-eyed, long-legged,
 her breath already fevered
 before the gates even open.

The races are brutal.
 Bodies stumble forward,
 dripping,
 hearts hammering at two hundred beats.

I can't help but feel sorry
 for all this beauty
 running itself into the ground.