The Race Track
In my twenty-first summer I sold
mutuels at Greenwood racetrack.
What I knew about the ponies
wasn’t worth knowing. Still, sad-eyed
men in snap hats, programs folded
like accordions, shirts stained
yellow with old sweat, came to me
looking deeply into my eyes for
the meaning of the fifth race on
a Tuesday night under grey skies.
High on the action, I slipped them
tips-- seen the splits on Ramblin’
Willie?-- that died by a head in
a photo. They never held it against
me, and I ended that summer
owing money, too. Had to
take a less tempting job. But
all of us--the decrepit touts,
eager boys like me-- would
give all our Tuesdays for
the sacrament of another race,
tickets scattered at our feet,
my horse gently coasting to
an eighth-place finish in the
lengthening shadow of evening.