03 April, 2011

You Don't Have Any Towels in Here!

Red, green, white, blue, black currencies
arbitrarily place value on our evening’s worth.
Flushes are always worth $2.50.
You might do well, break even, leave empty handed;
all of it is dictated and notated carefully by plastic and pulp.

The conversations ebb and flow with cadence and
great changes in speed, volume, seriousness, annoyance levels.
Bitch, be cool!
Some of us take it all in stride, cutting the deck (improperly)
and shuffling softly and slowly.

These rules which engage competitive glee
are decided upon early, so no foul plays can be called.
Weirdy bets ARE allowed!
Things like “splashing the pot” and “stringing bets”:
these phrases sound silly and delays still erupt.

There is no outlaw, gunpowder smell.
No one drinks whiskey or spits into a spittoon.
The pianola takes the shape of a small white metal bar that
shines music haphazardly, without threat of bottles being smashed on it.
And, the only risk of death comes from burger meat stacked too high.

Some people talk about the game, with its probability and stratagem.
Others play with random bubble gum toys with earnest.
Puns and jabs and one-liners make some stop concentrating.
Others just sit quiet, trying not to giggle too loudly.
It truly is udderly amaizing.

Big blind, little blind; flush royal straight of a kind.
These monarchal combinations enable wealth and failure to
fall upon the shoulders of eleven lowly souls.
Binary colors and limited sequences keep all seat-glued.
The circle abruptly departs along with gossip, cash money, tired eyes, memory.

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