Jacob T. McCall
They say my hands are strong enough
to draw blood on the bits in a colt’s
They don’t notice
how I will only eat
for a month before the post-date.
As trainers pace chestnut
geldings and smoky colts over
the Kentucky clay, training them
for the derby, I rise by moonlight
and pass out my strength to the soil
below the outhouse. My race has
only given me the notices
of Darkie or Boy and a good
piece of the purse. My race has given
me hands big enough to hold
the rein and whip. My race has given
me the blessing of running
myself to death to make weight.
Isn’t that what race is about?