To slide back in the mix—
I need one good hit,
a tip sheet from Bacchus.
a horse that smells
like fire and bourbon,
early lick in its veins,
more heart than
Joe Louis,
more grit than
LaMotta in a smoke-filled ring,
more power than Marciano.
I need the odds
blinking my way from the tote board,
eight to one or better,
and the racing gods
to glance down
through the Hollywood Park clouds
and wink.
Just six furlongs,
one round of thunder,
and then—
I’m back.
Back in the roar
of the track,
the clatter of hooves
and the smell of dirt,
degenerates and dwarves,
painted-up ******
hot dogs, spilled beer,
pick-up lines flying,
and the blazing neon,
neon lights bleeding
like a saxophone solo
out of a tavern door.
One twisted blessing,
one break,
one flash of luck,
snatched from the ******* gutters,
and I’m alive—back in it,
in the crowd, in the chaos and clamor,
in the smell of sweat and mustard,
with a scrape of discarded lottery tickets
and pennies from a Vons parking lot
that don’t belong to anyone
but me,
the taste of victory,
sweet and bitter,
on the roof of my mouth.
The track buzzes underfoot,
the horses’ hooves still ringing,
my dad’s gruff voice
and my little brother’s laugh
etched in the caverns of my mind,
and for one small, perfect home stretch,
I’m back in the game.
The private symphony of Providence
flowing through my veins,
every nerve pulsing, vivid,
and every shadow… grinning…
like it knows… the at-the-wire surge.