A Day at the Races

I was with Harpo and Chico
in the cheap seats
when I saw your hat.
It was way up,
blue, in the boxes.
Harpo got on
Chico’s back
to see what
was underneath it.
Harpo honked three times,
I mumbled to myself,
“Sweet Jesus.”
Groucho came back
with another
mint julep.
I borrowed it,
along with his tie,
tails and cigar.
It’s always important
to look the part.
Now, normally
I love the landed gentry.
I really do,
but, not when
they’re in a crowd.
Drunk, boisterous
and loud, fortunate
are the few,
standing right
in front of you.
“Isn’t it time
one of you fuckers
got another scotch,”
I thought.
Finally, one of them
went somewhere
to have his man
adjust his ascot.
The horses were
at the gate
and then they
were away
the first time
I saw your face.
Number 13
caught a break.
“He’s moving up
on the inside,”
the announcer said.
You looked at me,
I looked at the odds,
and did some math
in my head.

–August 2017