Charles Bukowski

No. 6

I'll settle for the 6 horse on a rainy afternoon, a paper cup of coffee in my hand, a little way to go, the wind twirling out small wrens from the upper grandstand roof. The jocks coming out for a middle race, silent, and the easy rain making everything at once almost alike. The horses at peace with each other before the drunken war, and I am under the grandstand feeling for cigarettes, settling for coffee. Then the horses walk by, taking their little men away, it is funeral and graceful and glad like the opening of flowers.

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