Spitting at herrings

[DieterM]

A Monday, I gather, or a Friday,
and the grass was greener,
the sky was bluer,
gazes intense and the air
a water colour yawn

I knew that Belmont was at stake,
and yet, I had to slap that white mare
on her right flank;
she ran off, neighing,
with a tiny jockey dangling

I would’ve loved to know who sentenced me
to boredom-upon-Elmont –
frankly just another word
for fake and bliss
and hopeful housewives chatting

Swing chairs and porches for two whole weeks,
until I fled to Far Rockaway to spend
my afternoons counting Boeings and spitting at herrings,
and after a while, the shoreline
withdrew in anger

The longest days, I gather,
were always Mondays or Fridays;
they felt like ikebana on Ritalin
or bad hair days
for bald guys