The most despairing yellow sun
Across the Virginia Avenue bungalows
The gun not pointed to my head
By the strangest hand of all: my own.
For once the horror seems resplendent,
Tomorrow we go to Santa Anita
Watch horses fresh as dew
With friends made new in hats
We have waited far too long
Spraying with bullets the possums and raccoons
As if that makes them go away.