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)