For Grant Ferrier
We settled into the soft leather
Of your factory fresh Alfa Romeo
And headed west on Parramatta Road
Bound for Rosehill. Once through
The turnstiles and inside the stands,
We examined the form guide, made
Barely educated guesses, placed bets.
We settled down at a table outside
In the mid-winter sun, rolled up sleeves
And tucked into meat pies and beer.
As the day’s racing began, we rose up
And migrated to the edge of the track,
Our excitement increasing by the second
As the horses rounded the bend and began
Their charge down the home straight.
We forgot ourselves and our inhibitions
During the final seconds, yelling, jumping
And pumping our fists as the ground shook,
Turf and sweat flew, and the mob charged past
Crossing the line, turning us into losers.