Gambler

A poem for National Poetry Day

Tony in his trainers and filthy sheepskin coat -

must have bet his only shirt and lost -

holds his collar to his naked throat

to ward off rain and early winter frost.

Spends afternoons in Ladbrokes studying form,

glued to endless racing on the screens,

sits by the radiator to keep warm,

has no credit for the gambling machines.

You wouldn’t put a penny on his chances

of making good or cleaning up a bit.

He’s the underdog no decent punter fancies.

He’s the double when you know you should have quit,

he’s life’s pony limping home without its rider,

the torn betting slip, the hundred-to-one outsider.

by
Jeff Phelps