R. 2: Certain vs. Mr. J - (Mr. J wins)

[Certain]

My father adjusted his cap. The gates opened.
They’re off.
A pace beholden to horse-racing standards.
“Start off too fast,” my father said as he lifted his match,
“and you’ll drift from the pack, take a big lead and give it all back.”
The smoke streamed from his mouth and his nose
as they turned down at the post,
our ticket, Galloping Ghost, crowded in close.
The dust mirrored my father’s face,
clouded in smoke.
They came around the turn. My father touched my shoulder,
turned me to the third horse on the left, seemingly running slower.
“Longer strides, look at him up and go.”
The beauty was striking.
Drifting like feathers in the wind
at a speed that, with each lunge, left him headed for the win.
He moved to second place, then to first,
as Galloping Ghost couldn’t separate on the turn.
And as that black beauty reached the home stretch with no hesitance,
my father smiled, tore up our ticket
and told me to remember this.