No race now, just a pavement,
A loose selection of shops
And scrubby spots for dogs
To find their mark and shit.
People drift dispassionately
Along the lines that defined
The bunch, that held the
Hunched-up drama of a day
Long since settled over by
Time. Even the sky is blank.
It’s clouds, just clouds. Not
Chopped with rotor blades
And crackling bright static
Roar; the rising racket
Of choreographed chaos
Beneath, which was the race.
After the passage, the silent
Parade of the unexceptional
Resumes its place in the slow-
Beating breast of the world.
No race now. Just a pavement.
