The Gambler

 

So far, nothing Bukowski has

to say has inspired me today.

Five or six horse race track

poems in a row. I’ve only been

to the track once in my life,

and that was at my brother’s

insistence.

Brother Dave loved to gamble,

the ponies, poker, the slots. He

won some and lost a lot. He

loved betting on or against the

odds.

He was the brother who was

riddled with hospitalization

for much of his adult life, bad

kidneys, failing heart, the gout

and such.

Dave drank and ate a lot which

facilitated his losing streak

physically speaking. Sent him

to the grave at age seventy. I

was amazed he made it that far.

But he never complained.

Figured he did in life what

he was meant to do.

Had he been a race car driver

or mountain climbing exercising

as much fervor as he had for gam-

bling, chances were those likely

would have sent him to an early

grave anyway.

Might as well have a little dare-

devil excitement in life was his

philosophy, I recon.

As for me, I took many chances

in my time, smoked and drank a

lot, moved about from place to

place, job to job, woman to

woman. Suppose I had a lethal

devil may care attitude of my

own fashioning which I am

paying for physically at age

seventy-six.

I guess you could say,

given my waning condition,

I have walked up to the

mutuel window to place

a bet on how long I have

yet to live.

At my age, physical and mental

condition, my odds for longevity

are not so great. Besides, even if

I netted 20 to 1 winnings, what

in hell good is that going to do me

anyway?

I suppose I should feel lucky that

Bukowski and my brother Dave at

least gave me something to write

about today. I am grateful for that.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

Hell, I feel lucky. Make it fried!

                  -30-

Chris Hanch 7-7-2023