Thoughts Collected

The lights have shrunken dim.
The clinking of poker chips measures the time
That has lost its hold, and tattered on a cold wind,
Rushing high above an enlightened tower
That insists on tolling at the passing.

Southern boy, next to me,
Hands shaking with surgical precision,
Offers me an innocent glance
Building his castle as my towers fall.

I sink back into the crude cave that is left to me,
Out of the mad swirl, the heavy haze,
Reflecting my revenge.
Is it peace I notice, slipping out the front door,
Into the crystal northern mountain air?

But laughter from the maddened swirl
Enlarges the power of the haze.
I cannot deny the beckoning,
And I lean back into the game.

                                         (8 Webster Ave, Hanover, NH)

One Response to “Thoughts Collected”

  1. True "Southern Boy" Says:

    That’s some historical revisionism encapsulated in verse. That was no pastel-covered floridian butcher whose wealth exanded as your poker-measured world collapsed and shriveled. As we all know, many poker chips just go for muscular guys.

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