Picking Them by Bonnie Proudfoot

Picking Them

How could you know, when
we checked the horses before
the call, as the jockeys trotted out
and back, out and back, their knees
held tight to waists, the bays and dapples
of thorobred horseflesh glistening under silks,
the manes knotted, tails docked and taut --
how could you find the one who'd nose
out the others? Photo finish, you'd call,
watch out for the number three; he'll come
from behind. You knew the trainers' names,
you knew the stables, you had a system
and tallied the odds, but more than that,
the look in their eyes at the gate, or maybe
the way they strained at their reins.
You could really pick'em. Put a couple of bucks
on the three - he's a longshot, but a looker.
Let's you and me make a little side bet, you'd say.
And I remembered this at the ball park tonight,
you're in the hospital for an angioplasty
and I'm in a box seat on the first base line,
watching the Lynchburg Hillcats annhiliate
the Kinnston Indians. These young guys are
all hungry for the show, but I have my eye
on 44, a catcher to start off, who moves up
to first base halfway into the game. He
bats lefty, and there's a tautness, a snap
in his thigh and bicep. And all I know
about this kid is his name, Steve Thobe, and
the way he holds his head up at the plate, but I'll bet
good money that if you were here, you'd point
him out. He's going places, you'd say, he's a real finisher.

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by Bonnie Proudfoot

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