Dark Horse

I see you, head down.

Near the front row

First to race, to rise, to leap

Last to let go

of facts and forecasts

about the world

and the bet that you can't

Or they won't

let you do, or say.

They say, "Not okay, until we say."

"Pray for the day when you can play."

The game, the song, the show—

Collaborating? Compromising. Haggling? Gambling.

With a brass token

a patina life

Worth maybe something; a loaf of bread; a broken dime

A dozen times—

"Enough!"

"You're last!"

"Let go."

"Such are the forecasts for the world

and the fact that you can't."

"You just don't have It:

the Shine, the Sparkle; the Glow."

See, that's how they lose.

When they refuse to bet on the unsung

the un-drafted

the unheralded

And in the unexpectedness

that's when you race, rise, and leap

lunge, and punch

and punch, and punch

Knees crunched, back hunched

Still you punch, and punch.

From the hollows your plows echo

You bellow, "This is the day I play!"

Your game. Your song. Your show.

Lights out.

In the shadows

through the gaps so narrow

Out you wallop

and gallop to the front row.

I see you

Head up high.∎