The engines chiseled the air that day; dry
Metal slap of cylinder and piston.
Maybe time has forgotten
this particular race,
Save a footnote or two, but maybe
They’ve mentioned how Richard forged ahead
the field that day--his blue and orange 43 car
Galloping around the slanted asphalt,
Until his engine banged alone
down the back-stretch.
Do you remember? Your voice, like the crowd,
Drowned in the ragged rip of rpm’s. All
you could do
Was smile down at your son, sitting there
Alone as Richard; his heart banging in his chest.