Blood, Sweat & Tiers

Blackjack nights
do gods play
with conscience,
21 on my tongue
and sixteen
between thumb
and index.

Like a loaded gun in child’s hand,
playing
cops versus
robbers in games
of chance,

every
trigger pull
tempts
tragedy

with
vastly reduce odds.

If you hit me and I’m stranded on
the far side
of serenity
my ascendancy will likely
benefit your fold

but if
I hold out just
short
of the
magic number,
brother,

your blunder
is my
modest boon.

So hit me with all
the twos in your
card counted decks.

It’s a fight to the
death
with
clubs, spades and
hearts that make
up the bottom,

aces among them but
almost
always working at
a royal’s
behest.

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