Strong horses pull us all toward death
and time’s the whip that spurs the race.
We all will reach our stride in this
inevitable regret and yet, 
all bets are off  when fresh
horses thunder from the gates,
hooves pounding earth, 
with hope and muscles 
straining for a prize 
that lies beneath the turf.
Strong horses pull the weight of days 
to graves and all that we can pray 
is some will say, indeed,
there was a race today.

© 2004 by Tim Conway. All rights reserved.