Two o’clock. Speed is the only thing-
in my mind.
I walk through the stands,
with cars lined on the track,
the son and father putting in ear plugs.
Screaming tires and fans
standing at a car filled track,
at the Brooklyn Michigan speedway.
It is crowded, the cars fast and passing.
I watch in the fuel filled air.
All around me fans are standing-
the rumble of the engines,
the odor of fuel,
the warm tires smacking the track
ready to pass he just needs a lap.
When he finally reaches first place,
the air is as crisp as a pickle,
the line is as thin as a french fry,
the flag is as white as bleach.
Suddenly, I understand winning.