He hugs up on all the girls
the way an old man can
and always keeps one eye
on the track and on his wallet
so he won’t miss post time.
The small time sports bookies love him
though he never lays a bet,
and the young waitresses
think of him as a grandfather figure
with grabby hands.
Near post time
he places his bets—
small ones, and when he’s done
for the day, he makes sure to grab
one more ass and the orange juice
that was his excuse
to get out of the house. Retirement,
he says, makes it harder to get away.
But he always leaves
safe in knowledge
he never loses enough
that he’ll have to go home
empty-handed.
