To a Dead Rat

The thump of a railroad fat with peaches
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.