You’ll not see their like come race season,
Having left the premises to be replaced
By the preening breast-augmented and face-lifted set,
Shaking their heads and clucking sadly if one inquires
If they might have something
A touch smaller than a Franklin in their wallets,
Their smooth patter, replete with references
To Paris junkets and Milan catwalks
Occasionally interrupted by one of their more prosaic counterparts
(Hard-core players following the nags up from Belmont)
Stopping in to partake in one vice they’d sworn off earlier
While loudly disclaiming the other which had ruined
An otherwise perfectly lovely afternoon
(They’ll down their draughts in short order,
Most likely headed for the harness track
To drop a twenty on some longshot
Which bears the name of a long-departed grandmother.)
This time of year, though, they are ubiquitous
As the black and salted slush,
Sad souls slouching in after a bracing walk from Skidmore campus
Or some down-at-the-heels apartment on Alger Street,
Forlornly popping into some quiet booth
With the familiar long-distance stare seen in those
Beginning to grasp the truth that one
Is an object of prey in a very small pond indeed
(Likely a semester, no more than two certainly,
From having their undergraduate epaulets
Torn unceremoniously from their shoulders)
Being as quiet and unobtrusive as church mice
Until a half-dozen or so Coors Lites
Leads them to pontificate on the injustice of the universe
And if they have not decided to stagger home
Or degenerated into desolate tears of self-pity,
They are wont to dispute the existence of the Almighty,
Saying with a conviction which would be impressive
If expressed by Beelzebub himself
That he does not exist, that he cannot exist,
Though the body of proof cited in support of the proposition
Tends to be fragmented and rife with circular reasoning
(We know that they’re most likely drinking with false ID,
But they are invariably pedestrians—let them have their moment,
Only threats to themselves, after all.)
As for myself, I’m of the opinion that faith in the Hereafter
Is that rarest of bets, an absolute bet-the-chalk- dead- cert
Where you walk to the betting window clutching house money.