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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
Of 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.



Will Morris