Day At The Races

by July 2, 2023 0 comments

The professor always wore his bifocals,
lived with a man who favoured cardigans
that looked recovered from a garbage bin.
Telling him he looked like a bum solved zero problems;
they only worsened as he loathed brutal honesty.
They watched the horse races at Fort Erie
and lost more money than they could afford.
Sometimes you wind up fucked up
no matter how wise you and your pal think you are.
They played dominos in the evening
and the professor as usual won.

Frankly, we don’t care what happens to these men.
It’s sad not all of them get off their feet,
not all of them get to tell their story.
But before we walk away, let’s listen to them
one last time as they prepare for bed.

“You’re wearing my pajamas, man.”

“These are mine. They always were mine. You have no right
to change history. Why do you want to win all the time?”

“I told you Grand Stacy was a lemon.”

“Had a tip from the groomer. He said she was on fire.”

“Yeah, they had to put her out with an extinguisher
at the finish line, like most burning mares.”

We hear, “Bring it on,” as we pull back from the scene,
happy that we’ve conquered our shame.
We don’t care what happens to these signifiers.
We don’t care what happens to the furniture
we haven’t described, the bedsheets, or the dominos.
The figures will slowly retreat from the mind,
except perhaps for the burning horse
and a whiff of lingering disappointment.
The ink will fade, paper will crumble,
maybe even words will come to pass.
One final question: Where is Fort Erie?
It’s right there, my friend, on the map.

– Salvatore Difalco

editors note:

A geography lesson and an odd couple. – mh clay

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