Bet

I will knock you down

The die who serves drinks for ten

And itself for two.

I told cards, stubborn-faced to the

Table

If they didn’t turn up...  They already were.

Someone signalled vaguely, behind

The bar.

In sympathy I thought, acceptable

Black. Hard changes apparently, determined

Young men cutting backgammon, cigarettes.

Connective tissue still dragged

On the unsolved system

In Roulette wheels, Babychams. Spinning eyes in revolvers

A tragic mess

Almost competitive

For the retina, the spades said

Cheating the holes of old hearts

In perfect fields. Adjacent parts.

Triple eights.