The father who slams down an ace
with a nightmare phone call
at three a.m. and shouts:
“Your cousin has been
in a horrible accident,
and you better get down
on your knees and pray,”
still holds all the cards unless the son
upends the conversation,
scatters the chips and asks himself:
“Why do I need to get down on my knees
because the crazy little bastard
missed a curve and flew off a cliff?”
and abandons that smoky room
before guilt goons drag him
back into the shadows
where shifty demons stack the deck
and the dealer in the attic always wins