Opening Day

The shore’s greatest stretch is what they called it
– the sport of kings –
which I knew it wasn’t and took for bullshit.
An excuse to be in the sun on a weekday afternoon
an inch away from the beach in spectators,
handicapping behind the paddock,
is what it was.
– Pick a horse for us, Rookie –
I landed an opening day sunburned finger on that racing form,
already dark bay myself.
– Sure
I always know who finishes first, second, third –
laughing with that deep amusement reserved for little girls
and horses.
– You don’t need a racing form for the trifecter –
with that Hudson County inflection.
I bet it won’t be me, him, her
in that order.
And I’m right,
again.
Because I’m always right.
No one has me in hand,
though everything I know comes from Dick Francis paperbacks.
I trace those horses on the covers and hum to myself
like a money rider on a hand ride,
furtively escaping to spare myself the witnessing of badly chosen boxes
and uncomfortably third wheels.
I can never resist the promise
of a sunny pause in the mildly pungent ocean air,
mixed up with filly tang and Route 9,
and the skin of my own shoulders baking proudly with a silvery touch of baby oil.
– Come on, Rook,
pick us another one –
except I just didn’t fire that day.