Piped In
In the Men’s Room
at Portland Meadows,
Frank Sinatra is always singing.
Through the white porcelain, up and around the mirror splashed
sinks, over the din of flushing urinals,
Frank Sinatra sings,
every day.
Into this private party, rat-pack, brassy big band braggadocio
Comes a post parade of wily winners and lowly losers.
They unzip and position themselves to The …. Party’s …. O ver.
Outside, in the real world, missing people bubble up in rivers,
seven-year-olds die in drive-bys from Maine to Mexico,
a board of education president commits suicide,
Islamic terrorists stare back through wooly manes, rifle sight eyes, and layers of cotton clothing,
But in the Men’s Room, at Portland Meadows,
Frank Sinatra is always singing,
Fly me to the moon,
And let me play among the
Rogue politicos,
Post Traumatic Stress Disordered,
Children of a lesser dog
In the Men’s Room, at Portland Meadows,
A Chicana with glistening black hair, wipes sinks, clears the floor of abandoned exactas, trifectas… personal handicapping.
In this beige-tiled cocktail lounge, patrons void, then avoid the “lady,” tucking in shirttails, jiggling flies, deciding they’d better wash their hands now.
Outside, the planet hatches more headlines,
Sex scandals, sweet and sour Tweets,
An ape rips a face,
An addicted horseplayer rips a ticket.
Stick around, there is always another race, somewhere,
A play among the stars,
And in the Men’s Room at Portland Meadows,
Frank Sinatra is always singing.
Luck be a Lady Tonight.
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