can cast a winning spell.
He doesn’t gamble, but is grateful
for the hoofbeats behind him, meting out drama
like the percussion section of a symphony.
Sometimes the wind adds a flair, translating
the echo of the race caller into a chorus.
If troubled at night, he begs classical music
for solace, if none arrives, he turns to wands.
Legs never appear. Pencils fill the floor
like children’s pick-up sticks.
A symphony reverts to annoying patter.
Its chorus a hackneyed dirge of silly names.
Self pity lasts for about a minute thirteen seconds:
a typical six panel clocking at Narragansett.
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Insurance
Bob is 80 and has never paid
more than $100 for a car,
never insured one either.
His latest is a ‘78 Belvedere.
Bob’s eyes are bad but risky
driving beats boredom,
Meals on Wheels his only visitor.
His wife doesn’t know him anymore,
stays with the daughter.
Strikes Bob the Plymouth
is the color of an old zipper tab,
parting teeth like tension
as he pulls away at 10 MPH.
They are going to rip open his chest again
to service the pacemaker that’s idling
as bad as the car.
Drivers cuss and beep but Bob doesn’t care.
He peeks at the mirror, hopes as many
vehicles show up for his funeral.
At the Indian Lounge,
he honks his horn until the bookie storms out.
Bob cuffs a bet on a horse named Port
Conway Lane, running at Laurel.
Before he leaves to buy a Black Label quart
he’s not supposed to drink and chop suey
he’s not supposed to eat,
he enjoys a Dutchmaster
he’s not supposed to smoke.
The diuretic kicks in on schedule.
Bob grabs an old prune juice jar
from the back seat and pisses
the piss of a man who never paid
more than $100 for a car or bothered
to insure even one,
never had an accident.
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Position
My Uncle Jack never said hello
when I saw him at a bar.
I overheard someone solemnly say
Jack regularly simonized a bookie’s
Cadillac to settle gambling debts.
Jack loved to bet horses breaking
farthest out, my father often reported.
A high school friend, once a playmate
of his daughter, believed Jack
and his family moved so frequently
to take advantage of hefty profits
from selling old houses they’d fixed up.
My mother whispered
Jack gambled away some nice addresses.
My father bragged that Jack had a jitney business,
worked his way through night accounting school
had a good job at the Gas & Electric,
facts I’ve never heard disputed.
His wife threw him out then took him back,
no drink or gambling as conditions,
after he broke a leg falling
down rooming house stairs
My father sneaked him aspirin
bottles full of whisky, ran a bet or two
but soon quit, citing the man or mouse statute.
At my Uncle Jim’s funeral I heard Jack’s wife
claim my mother deserved sainthood
living with the likes of my father.
I figured she didn’t know me from a jockey
on one of Jack’s house squandering picks.
When we were introduced she said, “My, how
you’ve grown.” I could have been a philodendron.
I recalled my mother’s rosaries and novenas
and my father’s penchant for the inside horse.
I wondered had we ever been close to eviction
because he’d blown the Housing Project rent.
Just as Uncle Jim who’d contracted pneumonia
after a frigid horse day and stormy dog night
was lowered into a grave, I envisioned as the six
position in a starting gate for consistency
as the tale of his preference was never told.
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Laurel Charger
It’s fifty-nine seconds
of Narragansett history I regret missing.
Might not have cashed a ticket
had I been there, although,
don’t recall if I was in the habit
of backing first
time starters then.
Working graveyard shift at Lebanon
Mills, taking a couple
of courses at URI Extension,
I might have been cranking
out a paper or asleep
when Laurel Charger laughed
off a five panel field – twenty-one
lengths in front at the wire.
Veteran jocks and trainers failed
to recall so strong a victory
at that distance: neophyte
or veteran campaigner.
There was no reliving it,
no civilian access to patrol film.
A headline and a story graced page 22
in the Journal but the photo featured
the next race winner.
That amazing dash rushed to mind
when I was part of the ’73 Belmont mob –
Secretariat topping Laurel
Charger’s count by 10 wrapping up
the Triple Crown.
(7 extra furlongs needed to do it, mind you!)
Trapped halfway to the fence
as Big Red hit the top of the stretch
I was blinded
but no education or fatigue
to blame just three sweethearts
of dime-to-one shot backers,
suddenly shouldered frantically
snapping photos
as if this Classic were a $2,000 claimer
at 1968 Narragansett and all the cameras
in Pawtucket except theirs had been
pawned at Stanley’s for cash
to heap on Laurel Charger.
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Hot Tips
In Fettle
and Chemist,
Hartle Boy,
Mallard Cove
and Uncle Herbie,
Naturally Rare
and Goldiner Stern
are just a few
of the names,
whisper to roar,
that sizzled
along with men
at barroom phones
with rolls of coin
passing on
the “sure thing” news.
Bookies calculating
what action to keep,
what to lay off
and non gamblers
joining those
clean for years
and others
just yesterday,
in the fever.
Whether the source
was an owner,
trainer, jockey,
exercise boy,
hot walker,
groom
or a dream,
icing that heat
was a mystery
winning, losing
or abstinence
never allowed
memory
to solve.
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Royalty
Uncle Dan is shrinking.
There’s an extra hole punched in his belt.
Worse than that his favorite Florsheims call
for thick socks to quiet the
flopping.
Dan used to be hell with polish
until age stole the magic from his spit.
So it’s a pick-me-up to have them done
at the Kenny’s American Shoeshine Parlor
with mahogany chairs taken
for granted when he was young,
feeling more and more like thrones,
the brass footrests as rich as Caddy pedals.
The dusty hat and two-toned shoes
in the beveled glass case are his
works of art on permanent loan.
Dan left them for blocking and shining
in ‘51 when he drifted south to live
on the beach in a trailer with a knockout
waitress who could pick Gulfstream
winners thanks to her horoscope.
Dan studies Florida horses in the Racing
Form and Kenny memorizes his bets
while cracking a shoeshine rag
like a jockey whip or rifle salute.
Dan’s never a sucker whatever his losses.
Not with Kenny bowing over
the Florsheims kingdom
like a loyal subject.
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Robinson Crusoe
If someone played
“When Your Old Wedding Ring Was New”
on the jukebox the waitress might cry.
The woman who ran the kitchen
did crossword puzzles in a blink.
Horsemen at the bar who tried to leave
their trade at the track found gamblers
willing to hire them at no wage
to dole out insider dope.
Gin, Hi-Lo-Jack and pool players
talked worn cards and rundown chalk
when luck was bad,
skill and genius when it improved.
One night a week a square
dancing group showed up
with its own music and ordered
meatball sandwiches in the dining room
and after eating they’d move the tables
to strut their stuff,
gals in gingham, guys in string ties.
The chorus of their favorite number
was “What did Robinson Crusoe do
with Friday and Saturday night?”
The caller shouted “Square Danced!”
to wrap it up maybe sparking an old down
or across in the puzzle maven’s mind.
Bar clientele, pool and card players too
substituted some comic
but mostly just crude Crusoe variations
and the gamblers scribbled down
what the horsemen said
as if hot tips in code.
The waitress plotted
how she’d jam the jukebox
if some jerk out front passed the hat,
selected every number
to free any shit-kicking notes
stuck in the woodwork
after too many square
dancers for comfort
let the door hit them in the ass.
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Candles
On everyone’s lips
at the Indian Lounge
was the Bean Hill bookie
who didn’t welsh
but fell asleep
with a lit cigar
and burned to death.
Horrible way to go
was the drinking
consensus.
But my father said he
wouldn’t mind that exit
then argued with a guy
who said Yaz didn’t have
much of an arm while at
the same time betting Hay
Horse the tenth
at Rockingham
and lighting a cigar.
But my father didn’t leave
in a ball of fire.
He died at the VA hospital
following his morning smoke.
We never discussed cremation
so he had a plain old