The Thoroughbred Poem by Cathe Ferguson

Skittery, jittery, nervous? Impeccably!
The Thoroughbred's nose to the gate.
Intensity, density, anxious? Delectably!
Its fidgety pose will not wait.

The air fills with sounds
that the race track rebounds
and the draft sends a waft to the tail.
A hump in its back, a shine to its tack,
the sun grooms its flanks as they flail.

Bouncy, jouncy, anticipation
the atmosphere swells with the tension.
Bolty, jolty, taut thew's elation
will come when the gun vows contention.

The track lures the hooves,
the bay's heart approves
as its soul pays a toll to the biding.
Its teeth chew the bit, its head throws a fit,
and its wild eye glares at the chiding.

Rackety, crackety, ready? Indubitably!
The gate is flung open; they're off!
Tactfully, actually, the breeding's instinctively
apt for the victorious boff.

(May 26,1990)