The dogs are running now; Rusty's ready! Rusty, the spindly bone they run to entice the dogs, an idiot the operator can slow down on the turn.
The dogs that shits or pisses is lighter and may win, place, or show.
I remember quinellas of resoluteness, tintinnabulations of trifectas, the second or third place of Antarctic droning. Whose chants, my relations used to feed them good eggs, their ear hairs destroyed by the hounds' baying and rocky coyote wail. Aunt Oral had one eye different from the other one. One time, she fell up a flight of stairs. The dog ran wide the third race back, samsara and suffering, dogs penned in Kentucky heat dying, bitched on Oregon or Arizona farms, the form rolled in my back pocket as I micturate, flowers as earth falls into the majesty of solsticial gloom. My grandfather took the taxi to the track once, from his rest home, alarming everyone, his breathing machine primed with vodka. The brindle 72 pound dog comes from behind, sand spurting from his feet, six races back, cotton candy and burgers heaped with onions, clowning in the shadows of poultry barns.

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