Improv 1, Week 7

This is just the beginning. I had read this article on Struck it Lucky (who is still very much alive) in my husband's ESPN magazine and I wanted to do something with it. I've been carting this damn article around for weeks, trying to make something happen. I was moved by David Bottom's poem "A Heron ont he Oconee" and although this is a loose improv, I liked the idea of decay, remembrence, and breaking a poem into parts. Chaple must have got it from him too, as she does it quite a bit in her book. Anyway, here goes:

Part 1.

A flag snaps in the breeze,  

the maiden horse clad in navy blue Struck it Lucky.

The crowd, white and moneyed, wears Brooks Brothers and Lilly Pulitzer.

Part II.

Injected with Lasix to control internal bleeding, front legs wrapped

In neoprene ice packs, stuffed cotton balls in ears.

 899 days of existence amount to mud fever and grass sickness.

 swelling, spraining, tearing, breaking.

Part III.

Still, Stall 31 is exactly the same. A 14 x 14 room of cinderblock and wood

A layer of straw on the floor, fresh water in a bucket

A bale of hay dangling outside its door. Struck It Lucky 

Nevermore.