B r a d  R o s e



Street Jockey

Walking down Santa Anita St., I recite their names: Naked Punchdrunk, Mr. Raw Rainbow, In It 4 the Fun. In my salmon-pink mouth, the names can’t get enough of one another: Pocket Full of Echoes, Parisian Gravity, Chocolate Candy Threat. Their music speaks to me: Romantic Getaway, Mrs. Robinson’s Graduate, Up All Night. The ponies are smart. They know their own names. They may not come when you call them, but they know what they’re doing: Endless Halloween, Too True To Be Good, Better Than Never. On the street, I’ve got things to do. I’m alphabetizing the fillies. I’m memorizing the program. I’m picking winners: I Shot the Sherriff, Unkempt Wizard, Devil’s Afoot. I’ve been out here a while, but I’m gaining traction. I never get hungry. The sun always shines: Up N’ Atom, Magic Flirt, Reverse Ending. I don’t bet. I don’t have to. Not here. Across the Board, the Daily Double, Bridge Jumper. I’ve seen things. It’s OK with me. Most things don’t matter: Happy Tornado, Kindness at First, Painted Shadow. I’ve made a deal with myself: I’m never leaving here. I’m glued to this street: Before U ‘No’ It, Just Like Fun, No Place Like Home. Of course, the track’s hard on ponies. They don’t last long. People don’t like to think about it, but most die without ever coming in first.































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