days at the races
“Either he’s dead or my watch has stopped.”
— Groucho Marx
Away they go with their fancy names
saddled with human baggage, desperate bets –
enough to lame a Thoroughbred,
be it a strapping colt or a sprightly old hand.
They walk away with Montag in the lead
and gain momentum on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.
Friday and Saturday, the poor ones are out of the bridle,
while Sunday, bless his heart, is just idle.
Some like to be there – tremble before the crack
from every whip, eat dust, bathe in foam
and feel the pressure of the flesh. Me? I would rather
Keep your distance, throw my bets off track.
Every week I make a little dough
although I rarely win or place or even show.
First published in Raritan. Credit: Jennifer Croft.