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His cards fan over his eyes;
he doesn't want to see.
The game of chance is always
half-blind:
at best, you know the hand you keep.
So he parks his truck in the lot again
and weaves between the younger men
and makes his way to the stools
where she's sitting, her skin
candle-smooth.
He sets in the space beside,
His hand catching colored and dancing
lights.
...
Shoulders spread as he moves outside.
The air turns fresh, the night bends
wide.
His truck's his perfect fit:
she creaks and roars or, stoic, sits.
They face the wind the same –
but still he sings where his mirrors
aim:
“You're a diamond in the rough;
You've got heart in spades;
I found you in a club – drinking pink
lemonade
like a joker that my deck never knew it
was missing, lord;
you're the ace that this jack would be
kissing, if this were
a twenty-one card pick up.
a twenty-one card pick up."
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