We pour over the program
the way our grandmothers
poured over the bible
and with just as much
expectation. If the Jockey’s
named Jesus, we look for a second sign. You
put faith in Kentucky stock, while I
always bet on the Irish stallions.
Never trust the speckled horse unless the rump is right.
Three minutes to post
and we’re divining the numbers
following inspiration and a preference
for names that remind us of a silly song
or a bad joke, or of home –
even though we know
they’d frown and preach
if they saw us clutching tickets like tracts
and praying towards the gate
on a Sunday morning.
They’re off and running. Jesus starts out strong
on number three. Sweet Mary and Sure Joesy Sue
hold up the end, while She’s a Lady creeps
up on the outside, ridden hard by Martinez
who fell off his horse last race. We have tickets
like bingo cards, arranged and superstitiously kissed.
Communion is a spicy Bloody Mary, though some prefer
their clamato with beer. Jesus and the number three
(He’s a Suitor) got bumped
and fell
behind,
leaving
Lucy’s Wet Dream half a length ahead.
When it’s official
we cuss the losing tickets,
cut our losses, and tithe the mutuel
a percentage – hoping for better luck
next time.
