Dirty Pool and Cards is how We Greet That God

Clink-tink! we go and start the night,
roubles from Sasha and Hiro spills out the yen.

I dip my vape, shaped as Saint Raphael, and bend my golden Sacajawea
round my fingers, her bowing over each pink hill;

and my quarters spill, Eloise does as she does please
and refuses to slip a cent, we eye each other

as cats with Zinfandel, sherry, black bourbon,
a club soda breaks the mold, a rocking hand indicating the so-so.

We old crows wax and wane, unfold and fold, prick our thumbs
with the tips of our tongues, gerrymandering,

hot like salamanders we can’t halt pandering
to those gods of luck and fortune.

A leg jitters, pointy canines flash,
I give a laugh like a hyena and we talk-talk-talk

about the Boxer Rebellion, rouge et noir, mother-in-laws,
taiko and hygge and Chunnel loves and real ass vodka.

The night roars her fists upon us, a storm we think
may last a century. Like ancient men in the Rookery we reminisce

of those histories, where Pan piped his flute,
living well was a coup,

horoscopes be damned, like loose women we’d get canned
by puritan Saint Peter at the gate; what could stop us?

We imps of the Round Table,
lickin’ the kerfs on our shredded pearlies,

staying up much too late, giving President Elects the finger
and riding high.

2 thoughts on “Dirty Pool and Cards is how We Greet That God

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