Blue Curaco

(For Glynn)

'Go on boy! Go on!' cries the Meat Salesman,
waiting nervously at the winning post, punching
the air as his greyhound, Blue Curaco,
streaks like lightning along the track.
'Go on! For me, boy, for me.'

All week he is up to his elbows in joints,
loins and portions, a quick cut, a friendly manner;
he knows his customers as well as his meat.
The betting slip in his blood-worn hands begs
to be released. 'Come on! For your old man!'

Suddenly the crowd cries out. 'Come on boy!'
The Meat Salesman's heart thumps hard.
Here come the hounds. 'Come on boy!' His
voice is hoarse, his lungs straining for air.
Here's the hounds. Blue Curaco's in the lead!

Like a bullet. Like a missile. This well bred
sliver of meat and hard muscle pumps past.
'Come on boy! For your old man! For me!'
Blue Curaco thunders past the finish line.
The Meat Salesman chops the air triumphantly.