Another game in the backroom, smoke
clouds a swinging lamp, wagers made
‘for’ and ‘against’ the whims of human nature
as dancing girls serve, and serve again
all over town for a dollar. We could be
the carcass on the table, flesh sliced thin,
honed steel a glint, they toil and angle
like bloody butchers trimming the best cuts
for themselves. Outside, pimps and barkers
watch the door, up and down the street,
pretend to be selective, pocket bribes
and whisper, ‘it’s the safest game in town.’
No tea cups here, no cloth napkins,
no silver candelabras holding flame—
the play is fast and furious, full of
promises, ‘you’ll never leave the same.’
Always gambling on the sunlight, on
the rain, the planet spins its own roulette:
hawks glide and rivers murmur to the wild
that’s left without a dime to its name.
drycrikjournal 