40,000 Analysis

at the track today,

Father's Day,

each paid admission was

entitled to a wallet

and each contained a

little surprise.

most of the men seemed

between 30 and 55,

going to fat,

many of them in walking

shorts,

they had gone stale in

life,

flattened out....

in fact, damn it, they

aren't even worth writing

about!

why am I doing

this?

these don't even

deserve a death bed,

these little walking

whales,

only there are so

many of

them,

in the urinals,

in the food lines,

they have managed to

survive

in a most limited

sense

but when you see

so many of them

like that,

there and not there,

breathing, farting,

commenting,

waiting for a thunder

that will not arrive,

waiting for the charging

white horse of

Glory,

waiting for the lovely

female that is not

there,

waiting to WIN,

waiting for the great

dream to

engulf them

but they do nothing,

they clomp in their

sandals,

gnaw at hot dogs

dog style,

gulping at the

meat,

they complain about

losing,

blame the jocks,

drink green

beer,

the parking lot is

jammed with their

unpaid for

cars,

the jocks mount

again for another

race,

the men press

toward the betting

windows

mesmerized,

fathers and non-fathers

Monday is waiting

for them,

this is the last

big lark.

and the horses are

totally

beautiful.

it is shocking how

beautiful they

are

at that time,

at that place,

their life shines

through;

miracles happen,

even in

hell.

I decide to stay for

one more

race.

from Transit magazine, 1994