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       A Verse Narrative by Michael E. Mautner


28



    While Eben watches the sulky races
    Clark scans the unfamiliar faces
    in the crowd and fixes on one.  Framed
    by dark tresses, at once innocent
    and on the razor's edge of mischief,
    its eyes meet his, radiant and untamed.
    The charioteers arc by the bleachers,
    deafening all.  Under the din a name
    is called.  He hears it; she stands.  Her features,
    like her smile, are elegant.  She turns.  "Lois,"
    her escort says again, "I had lost you.
    This mock Ascot's the last place I thought to
    look.  Come along."  They go.  Her face burns so
    in his heart it takes an effort not
    to follow, as it did to refrain
    from looking through her dress.  He remains
    in control, though, repressing indecent
    schemes as they occur.  The elder Kent
    slaps his hat against his knee, hoots and cheers
    for the winning jockey.  Clark disappears.
    Hoping to leave it less despondent,
    he makes his way to the circus tent.



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