Texas Hold ‘Em

A year after you first asked
how I like my mochas, you make me one,
though the moment does not go how
we thought it would. The world tends
to do that, thwart expectations
when you ante all your happiness on them,
so I don’t anymore. Truthfully,
I want my casino license back,
I want to crack open that ATM
and put everything on red, another
three thousand mile bookie call, but I don’t.
I sip the espresso slowly and swirl
the chocolate around my mouth,
practicing presence, taking note
of every sensation from the music
you put on to the warm air of the room
in the moment, truthfully,
I have shared half a dozen coffees
the way we thought we would since then but
the company never hugs me like it could be the last
one. You
still do, and I still wonder,
if I could have played my cards
any different. This fantasy of winning,
I am a moth to a clatter of neon lights
and lying Jackpot signs.
Did you know casinos don’t have clocks
specifically to throw you off your guard?
I wore a watch today

and still nearly missed my bus.

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