A Day At The Races

When you wake up after twelve hours The stove is cold, there's ice in the water bucket — clouds outside and snow, the noise of a crow, The only sound; until your wife cries From an upper bunk, Honey, I'd like some coffee. Luther chuckles. I nod, excuse myself  for the men's room Next to me stretches a teacher Who once warned me not to get married Too early. Elderly now, but having done well In real estate as a second career. He says Well, well, as if  he can't recall my name. But buys me a drink and talks of  his wayward Daughter. When he mentions her married last name I tell him I have met her, but leave off at that    . . . He squints like a badger. In my wife's family, he resumes, After a jostling by a drunken salesman, there's a Sort of stupid gene that runs through the whole outfit, Being half  Finnish, half  Dutch — or maybe something Cancelled something    . . .    I notice a protuberance, a small growth At the edge of  his eye, hanging like a broken thread I always thought, I say, your daughter had a charming Personality. He hunches his shoulders. Waking to dread, The debts of  dread — but I couldn't help him. Neither did I want to. On the way out I spot my first wife chatting with a small-time gangster — She flutters a wave my way, a Victorian flutter