Good Ferdinand
Blame the fickle cuisine of
the islands, good Ferdinand,
with Kentucky and the eighties
done—
a hundred dollars of horse flesh
and Godolphin’s retirement an
anachronism. We remember
the one who made it to Christmas
morn, if not the derby.
But who judges the legacies
of men?
They build a golden ghost in
Turkmenistan. Ferdinand,
I think we can both
find some poetry in that.
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Jeremiah Pitt is a poet from Middle Tennessee. His work is informed by his numerous pursuits and media fatigue.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 