#racing - Hello Poetry

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.

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Jan 5

Jan 5, 2026 at 9:01 AM UTC

thomas-w-case

Back in the Game

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.