The Game

Here the ashtrays smoke
by themselves, wind

kicking up enough
thick grey to choke

even the dead awake.
I sit with my back

to the wall, face
the glassless door.

This place. Trust
only those you don't

know. When Johnny
Two-Tone waltzes by

silently pat your
packed side. Heat.

Saturday night
special. 38. The small

door in the back,
a judas eye, hides

rooms where hands pray
to dice lopsided

as my walk. Flush. Three
ladies. Two ace.

While Abyssinia Ned
cashes in

& Walter Walleye
wins again—a straight—

while Cootie Le Curfew
curses his fate & Delilah

Redbone charms the place,
let's you & me wash

down the day—a toast—
To my enemies' enemies!

Let's try to spirit away
her beautiful, half-lit face

raising dirty mason jars
of soured grapes.