On our way into
Santa Anita one day,
an old man had tipped
over in his wheelchair.
There was a pool of blood
beneath his smooth head.
I was with my Dad.
He was around the same
age as the poor injured man.
I was 12.
Seeing that man, and watching
the blank stares of the apathetic
crowd gathering around the
man, and the blood, and the
fallen wheelchair, I knew that
nobody would win, and the
horses that ran were the luckiest
of us all.
This hits hard. No one won that, agreed. Nice work Thomas.
Thank you.
Powerfully penned, Thomas. This is an amazing write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thanks, Damian.