We're a Railbird

We switch mounts.
Ride for another barn.
Go out for a finish
in the money
on
a stalker/closer
running off the pace.
In this sport
things change.
The sprinter
we used to sit atop
in goggles and silks
has gone east,
to pasture and stud.
The trainer's stopwatch
stopped;
paramutual leavings
couldn't keep clothes
on his wife and child.
He threw his fedora
in the trash
on the backstretch
and left the track
for good.
But we're a railbird,
always here,
hustling another mount,
looking to get back
into the starting gate
and race.
We do it
for the love of the game.
Our first works
on the new mount
weren't bullets
but through two turns
a familiar rhythm
bind us tight
and our fractions
start
to hum,
sting,
sparkle
and jangle.
We'll be up there
coming into the stretch,
looking for an opening
where we
can put on the whip
and gun it.
Win, place or show.
We're a railbird.