|Ballad of a Failed Race Car Driver|
by Sean Garcia  /  poetry  /  1 Aug 2007
Wake up; get out of bed. Put on a tie,
Make sure it's straight. Go off to work; pretend
To like the job, or care about the pay.
Come back home to an empty house, and lie
Down. Watch TV until programming ends,
Take pills to sleep. Call it a day.
There was a time you dreamt at night, of more
Than putting on a suit and walking laps
Around an empty track to fill the space
From birth, that bottom of a whiskey bottle
On Friday night, to death, and at full throttle
Persued a dream. You finished in twelfth place:
Respectable, they said. One less mishap,
You might have won the thing -- but you ain't sore.
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