he used to sell papers in front:
Get your winners! Get rich on a dime!”
and about the 3rd or 4th race
you’d see him rolling in on his rotten board
with roller skates underneath.
he’d propel himself along on his hands;
he just had small stumps for legs
and the rims of the skate wheels were worn off.
you could see inside the wheels and they would wobble
something awful
shooting and flashing
imperialistic sparks!
he moved faster than anybody, rolled cigarette dangling,
you could hear him coming
god o mighty, what was that?” the new ones asked.
he was the world’s greatest loser
but he never gave up
wheeling toward the 2-dollar window screaming:
IT’S THE 4 HORSE, YOU FOOLS! HOW THE HELL YA
GONNA BEAT THE
4?”
up on the board the 4 would be reading
60 to 1.
never heard him pick a winner.
they say he slept in the bushes. I guess that’s where he
died. he’s not around any
more.
there was the big fat blonde whore
who kept touching him for luck, and
laughing.
nobody had any luck. the whore is gone
too.
guess nothing ever works for us. we’re fools, of course—
bucking the inside plus a 15 percent take,
but how are you going to tell a dreamer
there’s a 15 percent take on the
dream? he’ll just laugh and say,
is that all?
miss those
sparks.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
