Days at the Races
“Either he’s dead or my watch has stopped.”
— Groucho Marx
Away they go, with their outlandish names,
saddled with human baggage, desperate wagers —
enough to make a thoroughbred go lame,
be it a strapping colt or spry old stager.
Away they go, with Monday in the lead,
and Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday gaining speed.
Friday and Saturday, poor things, are off the bridle,
while Sunday, bless its heart, is simply idle.
Some like to be there — tremble at the crack
of every whip, eat dust, bathe in the lather
and feel the press of flesh. Me? I would rather
keep my distance, make my bets off-track.
Each week I pony up a little dough,
although I seldom win, or place, or even show.
First published in Raritan. Photo credit: Jennifer Croft.
Comments