lucky, luckless

slack jawed, a
cruel tyrant, a
lover which arrives
with no love. a poker
table, the words, i am
all in.

his muscles woven
tight like a basket
and a stubborn, set
gaze that we have learned
to be nothing more, nothing
less than heartless. if you
answer what you want out of
the evening, there's a slipping
of coins and the murmuring of fabric.

we aren't
gamblers, just
meteorologists
who have crossed
the stars and states
like our t's, dotted
the i's like the certainty
of winning a prize.

call me
inhumane
but you're
a bit mundane.

eyes down
dice up
gambling
gambling
nothing to
do about luck