ah
flamingo pain,
burnt fingers trying to
light the last of this
joint
in a place described
by terrified ladies
with money in their purses
as a “rat hole.”
“you can spit on the floor here,”
I tell them.
but no, from
a safe
distance, it appears
they’d rather discuss my poetry.
one thousand dollars
all of my knowledge about horse racing
told me that this was a sure bet.
I bet one thousand to win.
the horse had post one
at 6 furlongs.
the bell rang and they came
out of the gate.
my horse turned left
ran through the fence
fell down and
died
right there
at 7/5.
when I tell people this story
they don't say
anything.
sometimes there's nothing to say
about
death.
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