for Olaf Carlson-Wee
You don’t start at zero. You start way below zero.
You got your gas money, admission, you grab
a dog and a beer and hit the ATM, which takes
a not-so-small fee. By the time you set eyes
on horses you’re down thirty, forty bucks
and you haven’t even placed a bet. I started coming
when my wife died. She wouldn’t marry
a gambler, so after her funeral was my first chance
in 47 years. Oh, I don’t bet a lot of money.
If you don’t bet a lot you can’t make a lot,
but you can stay in it. Some guys hit the Pick 3
and the Superfecta-—those guys are gods. Not me.
I just work the chalk and try to climb outta the red.
To tide me over, my wife used to let me bet
chocolate chips. We’d watch the races on TV
and place our bets in bowls. She’d tease me
for playing it safe. Loosen up! she’d say,
then she’d put it all on Here Is Happy to win.
She loved that horse. She’d lose, of course,
and go make cookies with her losses
while I worked the chalk. After 47 years of that
it’s hard to remember I’m betting real money,
losing real money. When I win I remember,
I can tell you that much. I’ll never be a god
but I’m still here. The only god I ever met in person
was my wife. No bullshit: She hit the Superfecta
one time. Filled her bowl on four horses
and named the order. The exact order:
1, 2, 3, 4. And she won. After we stopped shouting
and cussing and jumping up and down
we did a little two-step right there on the living
room rug, and at the end I even dipped her.
She had red hair for miles. It was beautiful.