my horse was the grey
a 4 to one shot
with early lick
and he had a length and
a half
3/4’s of the way
down the stretch
when his left front leg
snapped
and he tumbled
tossing the jock
over his neck and
head.
luckily
the field avoided both
the horse and the 
jock—who
got up and limped away
from the kicking
animal.

accident potential:
that’s something
that’s not listed in
the Racing Form.

in the clubhouse
I saw Harry
standing in a far-
off corner.
he was an x-jock’s
agent
now working as a 

trainer
but not having
too many mounts
to train.

he was behind his
dark shades
looking
awful.

“you have the grey?”
I asked.

“yeah,” he said,
“heavy…”

“you need a transfusion,
it’s not much but…”

I slipped
3 folded 20’s
into his coat
pocket.

“thanks,” he 
said.

“put it on a good one.”

Harry had done me some
nice things
and anyhow
he was one of the
best
working for an edge
in one of the bloodiest
rackets
around: we are trying to
beat the percentages
and each day
some must fall
so that
others can go
on. (the track is just
like anyplace else
only there
it usually happens
more quickly.)

I walked over and got
a coffee.
I liked the next
race
a six furlong affair for
non-winners of 
two.

one good hit 
would put the gods in
place
and cure
everything
in a flash of
glory…