planting.
I light church candles for him
now and then, not because I’m sure
there’s a God out there
to feel the heat and do some
right by my father.
It’s more about tradition –
all the matches he struck
in his life and I champion
Red Sox outfielders
who throw strikes;
bet horses that come close
in name to those he favored
or are progeny.
Hay Horse’s chart that I saved
is yellow and brittle
best kept away from heat
flame, touch or sun.
Top of Page
Duke’s Gigs
It was a February 1969 day
at Lincoln Downs that Shy
Fox paid over a hundred
to win and a waitress
who faithfully bet
her badge digits
hit a huge 5-4 perfecta.
I might have cashed in
had train, indigo or satin
been part of the horse names.
But I was satisfied
with my brag, destined
to be repeated no doubt
until I expire:
I hovered around
the track owner’s table:
B.A. Dario himself,
really no big thrill
but that afternoon he treated
Duke Ellington to lunch.
I figured performing
at Ballard’s
in Smithfield was quite
a drop from his big
city gigs –
a natural thought,
since I’d worked
my way down
from waiting
tables at Camille’s
on Federal Hill
to busing them
in that winter
clubhouse for folks
more into dreaming
than dining.
I granted myself
and the Duke as much
in common
and given that his one
week nightclub stand
equaled my
Lincoln Downs
engagement,
shared the same
agent too.
Top of Page
Heroism
The guy who lived over
a bar where I used to
hang out was a local
hero once wrestling
a chainsaw away
from a drunk
intent on murder
who’d just cut
a barstool in half
to demonstrate.
Another night he talked
a gunman into
removing a pistol
from a cop’s mouth.
And he spread
the alarm among
residents when
the apartments
and bar caught fire
early one morning.
No feats like his
in my resume
and maybe that’s why
he throws a crumb
when he sees me,
describing how
I used to catch
the last two races
at the horse track
every damned day
hell or high water.
His words don’t
cut, wound,
or burn.
I don’t cringe
like a man
more modest
would.
Top of Page
The Day Elvis Died
I bet a quarter horse
at Parr Meadows
named Top Explosion
that paid twenty-eight bucks.
That trumped staying
in a room at
the Hotel Rosoff
where Bat Masterson
had once lived.
I studied
ceiling paint
curling off as if
the floor above had
hosted every rock
hop since 1955.
There was no A/C
just two sorry
windows shaking
in their
frames like slim,
young gunslingers
in roomy boots,
their speedy Parr
Meadows mounts
tied to a parking
meter out front.
Near midnight,
they slammed down
like shotgun blasts
or some new
stomp upstairs.
Top of Page
Clean Living
Saratoga is a get the cash
to last the rest of the year
in one month and some
and even the leaves
look like mitts
panhandling from
entitlement trees.
I hit the track twice.
No shit, eight winners
out of seventeen races:
Good clean living
behind the windfall?
First day three:
Royal Sanction,
Perilous Pursuit,
and Of All Times.
Second day,
The Looper,
Kohut,
Peace Emblem,
Seeking The Ante,
and Naughty New Yorker.
The grandstand teen wiping
the sparkling immaculate and good
clean living seats on day two
whether the sitter liked it or not
didn’t care for my deuce tip.
“Have a good day,” shot
from her pretty mouth
snarled like a late autumn leaf
and it worked out just fine.
Top of Page
Rounding up
My father’s major
wagering brag
stretched back
to nineteen-forty-three
a Belmont Park
Daily Double
pairing of Judoewee
and Dance Team
that paid $472.50.
He lived until age 80
but never matched
or topped that payoff
to my knowledge
As a matter of fact
he’d forgotten
the horse names so
I spun through reels
of newspaper microfilm
to get the evidence.
Amazed at my research,
he carried around
that time machine
printout and showed it
off in barrooms and on
his V.A. Hospital stays.
I matched his old dollars
at Belmont Park:
Qumran and Western
Expression.
My father had been dead
fifteen years when my exacta
return $473 even.
I round his up in my telling
to perfect the five dimes
off coincidence
a tactic often helpful
in any father / son
relations memory
fueled or not.
Top of Page
Eight Ball
Just once I played pool
with my old man
for a partner versus two Hitching
Post regulars who rarely lost.
My dad was known to be
a formidable force
with a cue in his youth
but his eyes were failing.
He’d even excelled
in regulation billiards!
His barroom skills
(cards too) eluded me.
But some inner father
pleasing power must
have been unleashed
or I was at just the right
stage of Budweiser
consumption to guide
> a tough (for me anyway)
bank shot smack into the side
pocket to win the losers-buy-
the-beers competition.
I sat next to the same
pool rivals at the track
two days later and I listened
to them put their heads together
to conclude Crying for More
was the one not to be denied.
Back at the father/son pool victory
I overheard a horse trainer
named Moran swear the jockey
Mercier always gave his all
when riding for him.
The winner, Tall Order,
same rider and conditioner
was as fleet as an eight ball
dropped off a skyscraper.
Flashing my insult
to injury tickets briefly
I stuffed them in my right
trouser pocket quickly to be
replaced by the cash
for continued luck
since, by God, the post
position of the winner
matched the black
and white orb’s digit.
Top of Page
Sowing
At odds of 9-2, Mr. Walter K.
was moving well along
the backstretch
when his leg snapped
and Mike Venezia had
seconds to make a decision.
Jumping off, he hit
the turf so hard
he might have been
dead when Drums In
The Night kicked out
an eye into a hoof print
like a waiting tulip
bulb in autumn.
The instant Mr. Walter K. faltered,
the track mob seemed to forget
about wagers or didn’t
curse out loud.
Reading the back cover
headline in the New York
Daily News while nursing
coffee in the Hotel Edison
Breakfast Room on W 47th
I mixed sadness with guilt
as I thought all horseplayers
should on such an occasion.
Ignorant of the jockey’s life
outside of entries and results,
I didn’t mind my own mourning.
I made something up, pictured
his wife after the funeral
remembering how it all began,
her father-in-law, escaping
the Ohio farm by boxcar east
to ride thoroughbreds
and no degree of the horse
fever lost on his progeny.
Some days after the accident
I envisioned her by night
mixing seed in the urn
with her husband’s ashes
to scatter at the finish line
to remind the land
what it was
supposed to be,
wishing a plague of corn
on racetracks far and near.
Top of Page
Unfit
The sports page shouted
out that Wendy had
reported in a condition
unfit to accept the four
mounts she was named
to ride but
there was no
mention of the cause—
drugs or alcohol?
I did not hold
her poor judgment
against her
as the track did,
issuing a suspension.
I continued to wager
on her charges
when she returned
and some
memorable
longshots came
my way among
them: Joy’s Will
and Tuttaforza
That gal jock comes to mind
when an oldies station
plays the Beach
Boys hit asking
Wendy, Wendy what
went wrong? and I might
puzzle briefly again
over what was behind her
impaired track arrival
but deftly file it back
in the horseplayer
Never
Never Land
where hunches
wrung from thought,
word or deed
like Catechism sin
are known
to mature.
Top of Page
Exactas
I hadn’t seen Andy in forty years
and when I finally did we talked
more about horses than
our Navy days.
As he drove his Corvette
by the old Detroit Race
Course location we lamented
the end of ovals we’d loved.
My DRC was Narragansett
Park in my hometown
Pawtucket, RI.
We stopped at his bar
called Rene’s which wasn’t
spelt like the “Don’t walk
away” song but it filled
my mind nonetheless.
Half watching Red Wing playoffs
we compared wagering notes
and discussed our top exacta
wagering hits:
Lucky Contract and Noble
Zeus for him, Qumran and
Western Expression mine.
Andy was dying
of cirrhosis, no departure
date forthcoming.
Back in Connecticut
I kept phone contact
made bets for him
until his son called
with news of his death.
I returned the fifty-eight
bucks in his wagering fund,
sent a sympathy card,
took a long walk no where
in particular and mulled
over Andy’s passing to
came up with an epitaph
that was a bit off from his
memorable exacta:
Unlucky yet Noble.
I wondered how the hell
anyone who recalled
or cared could elegize me
given my record exacta
handles.
Top of Page
Courtesy
I heard the general
manager shame a man
into putting a fiver
on Flying Silver
simply to show
some courtesy
to his colleague
who owned it.
I carried so many
bets to OTB the day
the horse was dubbed
a sure thing that
a VP said I should
be an actuary the way
I kept the wagers straight.
True to the contrary
in my nature I backed
another horse
in the race.
Hell, I was a peon,
didn’t have to kiss ass
or show any courtesy except
to the windows and doors
I loaded on trucks.
My pick was Flowing
Star a longshot I bet
across the board.
Flying won and Flowing
placed paying double
what the winner did.
Looking at those two “F”
words leering
off the result chart
like the easiest fucking
exacta in the world
to nail,
I chose to keep
my omission
to myself merely
shared a couple
of discourteous
hammer taps
with a triple-glazed
special order
trapezoid.
Top of Page
Restraint
It happens more
and more,
ask an old friend
>
about so and so
from childhood
and the answer
is he or she is dead
and that ends it.
But take this
particular guy
who waited
on table
at the racetracks
who always had
a fat roll
of cash,
could wait days
or weeks
to bet a certain
horse like John’s
Smile and nothing
before or after
that race until
he sensed another
that was ready.
Well, once upon
a time his restraint
was so lacking
he broke a downtown
window
walked away
with a TV
in broad daylight
as if he foresaw
being dead
and conversations
about him being
much too short
and simple.
Top of Page
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends