I was in Kentucky looking for Hunter
Thompson’s spirit at Churchill Downs. Twin spires
loomed over ladies in huge hats as they sipped
mint juleps in the sunlight near the race track.
Things made no sense. It was November in the
year of our Lord, 20-13, with nary
a horse to be seen. One of the women clucked
her tongue and looked me up and down, silently
judging my well-worn sneakers and baggy jeans.
She stared at my Led Zeppelin t-shirt for
several minutes, then scoffed and tried to drink.
Her trembling fingers couldn’t hold the glass
and it fell to the pavement beneath her feet.
The old gal motioned for me to clean her spill.
I tipped my ballcap’s bill and wandered away.
Doc’s ghost wouldn’t be caught dead in this hellhole.