You fly toward the finish,
and take the last curve
The Mulsanne behind you,
your legend—your nerve
Worn tires losing traction,
the edge of control
Fate laughing inside you,
old blood on the pole
Your mind now invaded,
the ghosts have arrived
Eighty-two came to watch,
eighty-two lost their lives
Your brakes are on fire,
you tap them just once
The last lap demonic,
a young driver in front
You fake to the inside,
diving deep to the wall
The rookie left startled,
checkered flag set to fall
At over two hundred,
charging down the last straight
With both hands on the wheel,
death again has to wait
You roar past the grandstand,
your right arm in the air
A dark podium beckons,
—the Devil’s to share
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)