At thirty years old, you sat in the grandstand
at Churchill Downs, working the Racing Form
and hitting the pint of peppermint schnapps
you kept nested between your feet. No one up there
but you, the wind forcing the proud and the
comfortable into the clubhouse.
It was Thanksgiving, again, and this killing
of the day was the best you could imagine.
Somewhere, a worthless brother was hitting
every charity dinner in town, filling up
his refrigerator with enough grub to feed
three families.
An associate was holed up at the Motel 6,
smoking crack with a woman whose chancred lips
would never heal. In retrospect, you could have
done worse, performed less honorably, chosen
an even lower path to crawl. But you stayed silent
and apart, your every ticket uncashed.
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