Derby Day Rites
Commissioned by and originally published in Velocity, May 2008
I. Louisville Wakes
Yesterday’s rain washed partyworn
streets clean, muddied the gardens
of retired Schnitzelburg matrons
stuck raising their grandkids
with the same resolve they apply
to tomato seedlings and flowering
annuals ready for planting,
while across town in Indian Hills
the cater waiters hum into bow ties,
pile ham biscuits high onto silver
shields, charge into fairylit tents
with steady hands, steeled nerves,
and Eastern Parkway’s a green riot:
the trees pop forth leaves in a sudden
burst, like paper blooms presto’d
from a party magician’s sleeve,
and the redbuds and dogwoods
shake their petals into loose
confetti scattered by the crisp
May wind. It is Saturday,
and the city is ready. All the town’s
uncles light charcoal grills in unison:
this is the way the party begins,
synchronized bourbon shots and fire.
II. And Down by the Track
The street economy swells, children
in cutoffs singsonging the going rate
for frontyard parking and spiked
lemonade. What makes a spot worth
ten dollars or thirty? Distance can be
measured in more than half miles.
A great crowd pours across
Central Avenue toward the Downs:
it is noon and already the shirts
are coming off, revealing inked
memorials to long-lost angels,
barbed wire bracelets cuffing
meaty biceps, while contraband
baggies of Bacardi slosh gently
against the genitals of frat boys
in cotton Bermudas flanked
by long-limbed teen queens
splendid in bright sundresses,
waving to the boys tailgating
atop Pop-Pop’s RV, hoping
for a flash of skin in exchange
for a strand of plastic beads. Corn
dogs and fake handbags for sale
are only the beginning of the story.
III. Inside the Gates
The women in feathered hats
are alien birds perched on flowering
fuschia brocade branches, thin
stalks of high heels teetering
in the julep breeze. In the corner,
a porcelain doll in midnight silk
and siren lips crouches in a pile
of beer cans and losing tickets,
tickets, smoking to keep from
crying. She came on the arm
of an ancient sugar daddy to cheer
on a jockey who doesn’t know
she’s alive. It’s hours until the big
race but already some frail dreams
are brushed under torn programs,
powdered away in the ladies’ room
mirror. Pink-cheeked graduates
in seersucker and straw boaters
impress their dates with all they
don’t know about horses, longshots
and math, their day full of tidy boxes:
lunches, seats, exactas they don’t
mind losing, and one last summer
before law school swallows them whole.
IV. The Infield
We march into the tunnel, straight
into the mouth of the beast: its hunger
for Mad Dog, chaos and bare breasts
insatiable, every offering met with
more, more, more. A wind gust blows
a girl’s hat, and before she can chase it
her dress billows up, a cotton candy cloud,
all tan legs and pink panties. Again,
do it again. Some middle manager, sun-
burned, too old for this scene, brandishes
his chest, his “Boobies Make Me Smile”
shirt a Latin motto. We came, we saw,
we stripped. Over in the mud pit
it’s Angela vs. Cassidy, and the odds
are in favor of someone losing her
shirt. The septuagenarian and his wife
decked out in Edwardian finery float
by, a parade unto themselves, high-
fiving executive rednecks in origami
Bud Lite cardboard hats. The bricks
already slicked with vomit, grass
damp with port-a-potty overflow
and warm sloshed beer, we head
past bored soldiers in desert camo
to be belched back into the civilized
world, or what passes for such a thing
here, as the hovering news choppers
shoot from the safety of the air.
V. The Race
If you want to stop time, stand
in the wrong drink line with mere
minutes to go before the running
of the Derby, order a mint julep
from the one bartender who will
not be rushed, the one who knows
the secret to muddling the mint
just right, who knows you need
a drink in hand for celebration or
solace, whichever the finish line
brings, and you will wait for it
with one eye on the clock, shifting
your weight from one sore foot
to the other, tipping him extra
for good luck before rushing back
to your grandstand front row seat
where you’ll lean over the fencing
to better see the horses crashing by
like something out of ancient Rome,
screaming for one fragile giant
to win, place or show for you, silent
when the filly you did not bet on
collapses at the finish, her legs buckled
under, the jockey’s heart in his mouth.
VI. After the Race
Maybe her heart gave out, cigar-
chomping grandfathers wag
in the cab line, did you hear the ex-
president’s daughter was there?
A woman has received her third
marriage proposal, and she dials
her sister to squeal about her ring,
and the sister calculates over and under
on this one lasting. Past police
barricades, gypsy cab drivers
in muddy Buicks circle like sharks,
waiting to take you on to the next
round. Everyone is drunk and nobody
is stopping. The Bristol bartenders
are waiting, polishing glasses, while
in the parking lot ditch, a girl squats
to pee, swigging from a bottle of
your friend Jack Daniels, who has
asked you to drink responsibly. No
thanks, the town has cried, this is ours,
this excess, this long Saturday of playing
the fool for ourselves, this short race
against steady time, this yearly exam,
when passed, that proves we are still alive.
