THE COURSE

I mistook a runner’s high

for a panic attack. I just can’t tell:

am I hungover, or is this a panic attack?

Have I got the flu, or is this a panic attack?

Is this unease and dread as the metro

rumbles slowly through its cement casing,

throwing sparks and coughing,

the beginning of the end,

or is it just me, isolate

in my panic attack? In the park,

a dog with a tail upturned and curved

like a teacup’s handle ranges alertly

beyond his master’s stride

but with a sensible self-control.

Meanwhile I’m trying to tire

the ponies that startle and shy

all day long on my racecourse mind.

No dice, it seems. Some new filly

is always being brought from the stable,

all unbridled, unfocused energy.

Terror-eyed, she flexes her ankles.

She hurtles herself from the gate.