The Handicapper

A racing form, pen-marked
with conclusions, takes a break
with a tip-sheet on the spread
of a long shot bet
in his head

Deli chicken skin and bones
go cold in a plastic coffin.
Headstones of drained and bent
popcans send cigarette smoke signals
to a scouting-party of flies
picking the winning horses he tries

He ain't no railbird.
He knows his stuff,
Handicapping ponies can be tough.
But it is what he does best,
Five nights a week its not a guess
Before the starting-gate bell
If you ask him he will tell

Luck, good or bad,
flashes the whitest
white known to man,
behind the eyes
of those
that daves picks did play
get in line cause it will surly pay


James.H