Shakespeare, Keats, and Wordsworth are turning in their graves…
October brings the autumn cold and drear;
The Spa, bereft, begins its winter nap,
Awaits July and the return of cheer,
Of those who come to wager, watch, and ‘cap.
And Belmont, home of champs, its storied ground
The host of Grade I winners, bids farewell
With state-bred runners; others, sunshine-bound,
For rest or racing, leave its empty shell.
To Aqueduct, then, we turn our racing eyes;
Manhattan Terrace, inner dirt, Cigar.
The subway, PP study time provides;
This Ozone Park desire some find bizarre.
There many moments we contently pass,
The hope of joy and fortune to amass.
Brooklyn Backstretch 
It ain’t Keats, but it ain’t bad.
Scrappy T, the new Grantland Rice. — John S.
I struggled a bit with the iambic pentameter, but other than that…
I majored in English became a cop–I destroyed the Kings Good English in almost every report I’ve ever written.Years behind me- I am not any of my Professors token success’s…That said I liked it.pete
Nicely bowled.
Thanks, all of you, for not utterly mocking this pathetic attempt at a poem. And heartfelt gratitude to Rich, for recognizing the rhythm.It didn’t take long to discover that neither “Aqueduct” nor “The Big A” scans in iambic pentameter…Back to prose…
very eloquent and poignant