When the red heart swells in my cards
I draw the queen and gaze into cold paper portrait keen
For another card I've seen here or there,
In my sleeve.
An ace, wide thighed and strong with no brace
Just brazen black boots and fingernails like spades.
The black sets card paper white so contrasted
Like love to a knife
But I need it to win—to throw out the cards
Bust
The thrill—the sin.
It's a gamble—a losing man's game
So I count the cards knowing I know no math
And make plays of the hip,
Fool—fraud—phoney
A joker telling jokes to court the whip.
So I gather my last chips
Sigh,
Take a long sip,
Roll up my sleeves to let it all fall out
Cards on the table—don't call, don't fall out.
Folded corners—folded hands
Brow folded to the hair,
Holstered pistols—holstered hand,
Holstered hope shoots itself and I know that ain't fair.
By the time that I'm through with having hair to run hand through,
Hand falls to green velvet table to find the cards are corroded,
The table—the yard,
My hand played out paper pulp,
My skin like card marked by miles places and too much game,
My head is a mess of numbers—names and places
The black silk and leather—the royal spades
The metal—the paper and ink,
The whips and the blades
And those eyes flush with pink.
I can't quit the game no matter what people think
So I pick up my cards and push them to the brink
Where they fall off the table to the floor
Hardwood abyss,
Just in love with the score—even knowing I've missed.
YOU ARE READING
Running Out On Time - Poetry and Prose
PoetryA collection of poetry written after I graduated university and tried to define myself outside the degree I had studied and the small part of Massachusetts that I came from. Travel, self-discovery, love, lonliness, and everything else you can imagin...
