Pretty Little

Light the candles 
with the foot of your cigar. 
Blow smoke in my face.
Take long draws of 
cards and chips and liquor. 

Play it Texas,
hold me real tight.
Find ways to make me flush, 
hand close to your chest. 

Pray you dealt me a bad beat.
That it’s all too big, 
and I’ve been blind
to see your emotions are counterfeit. 

That look in your eyes —

		between grey fog they glisten hazel green. 
		Intentions become a crystal decanter 
		that tell your whiskey colored secrets.

You are ready to fold.
A winning hand isn’t enough 
to make this house full. 

This tournament for two 
has become a game of one,
and I was never trained in 

solitaire.