and I pushed her off

walked down the steps

drove to Santa Anita

met a high yellow

won $185

went to her place

had steak salad whiskey beer talk

went to bed together

and did it

several times

that was some years ago

but now every time I drive past that street

where she lived—

Irolo Street—

I think, yes the kissing of the dead head

the sleeping with the high yellow

the good day at the track

mahogany uncles be damned,

you worked with what was

left and forgot everything

else, which is the kindest way for

all of us.

rosary

my father was a man full of small

sayings:

“early to bed and early to

rise…”

“a fool and his money…”

“you made your bed now lie in

it…”

“a penny saved is…”

“do as I say, not as I have

done…”

“if you don’t succeed, suck

eggs…”

there were others but I have

forgotten them.

how he would toll them off,

endlessly!

when he died I went to look at

him in his casket.

everybody talked about how good

he looked, “peaceful! look at him,

how peaceful! they’ve fixed him up

real nice!”

I just looked at him

almost expecting him to pop off

one of his sayings:

“a dead ass is better than no

ass at all…”

“don’t you wonder where I’m chasing

daffodils now?”

but nothing happened so I walked

away

followed by uncle

who said, “hey, Henry, let’s

go get something to eat!”

“I know just the place,” I said.

“follow

me…”

I could almost hear him saying

from the casket:

“the way to a man’s heart is

through his

stomach…”

the smirking dark

when I buried my father, death stood there

and afterwards I got into my old car and drove

to the racetrack

and I stood there and watched the numbers flash

on the toteboard

and death still stood there

looking at all the people.

and I said, “you killed Dostoevsky.”

he didn’t answer, he just stood there.

I made a bet and lost, went to the men’s room.

death followed me, stood there watching the men

at the urinals.

“you son-of-a-bitch,” I said, “you made Van Gogh

blow himself away.”

he didn’t answer me.

then he followed me out.

he walked away, following a young girl in a red

dress.

I went and got a coffee, spilled some of it over

my fingers, it was hot.

I found a seat and thought about the next

race.

then death was back.

he was sitting next to me disguised as an old

guy with a scraggly white beard.

“who do you like in the next race?” he asked.

“you son-of-a-bitch,” I said, “get away from

me!”

“what the hell’s wrong with you?”

he asked.

“I told you, get the fuck away from

me!”

he got up and moved

off.

I didn’t see him anymore at the

track.

after the last race