The father who slams down his ace
with a nightmare phone call
at three a.m. and shouts:
“Your cousin, Sammy,
has been in a horrible accident,
and you better get down
on your knees and pray,”
still holds all the cards unless the kid
upends the conversation, scatters the chips,
and asks himself:
“Why do I need to get down on my knees
because Sammy, the crazy little bastard,
drives a dairy truck into the side of a bus,
gets himself and his best friend
decapitated by a rack of milk cases?”
and abandons that smoky room
of childhood
before guilt goons drag him
back into the shadows
where shifty demons stack the deck
and the dealer always wins