To a Dead Rat

recalls the orchard and the work

even the fruit crates catskinned

off Tahoe by wildcat gypos

a hundred years before or after

the jackpot.

And the racetrack: I linger over it

full of regret.

Outside the cannery rats are foiled

in their tracks by attractive wafers

chained to the fence.

The ponies are pounding, wild in wind and silk

and my heart leaps at the chance.

A bum in the weeds would rather tell me

about the CIA than light the cigarette

so we part slowly and at peace.

They're bending at the turn, a fire of turds

and hoof-clots follows the dense pack

and my horse throats out, ahead

but burning, all precious energy and lust

beaten out of him.

The factory cranks out canned almonds

the trucks roll off to Safeway burdened

with all the easy cheese, the milk has

officiously been pumped and sealed

at the scale, and the rat snuck up to the wire.

Took a chance. The guard saw

everything on camera and made a mark.

An employee in a hairnet popped an almond

with her teeth and proposed marriage

to the guard but it was lost-her horse

rolled in the stretch and threw her,

whereas the fruit truck entered the third turn

one minute ahead of himself.

The rat took the cheese.

I rolled my own and watched

a two-round prize fight at the bus stop.

I put my roll down on the

chick in a skirt but she had no heart

and the whole thing withered,

I had nothing.

The train pounded on through midtown just about

splitting the rat in half where it had expired

about sunrise, when I lost my last dollar.