Gambler

The chips stack up on the table

Watch them, watch you watching me.

Your poker face is impeccable.

But the better it gets, the more I lose,

because I keep laying cards on the table

and when I’m sure I’ve got a straight flush

your face is anything but,

and I’m out my last bet to your hand.

My pile’s low now and

you’ve exhausted me completely.

So before I go all in,

why don’t you hold on to your apathy?

And I’ll pick up my pride.

We’ll go our separate ways,

I fold.

The Confession

          He wrung his hands together and stalked back and forth across the room like a starved lion pacing its cage. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and he noticed that the glass he was holding had spilled water across the carpet. He sat down on the bed. Sat up. Checked his watch—6:40 PM—she’d be home in five minutes. By 6:45 PM, he thought, it would all be over. He’d say it as soon as she walked in the door.

            He looked out the window and watched his six-year-old son ride his bicycle in the driveway. A pained grimace came to his face as he remembered what had been the catalyst to all of this—his son, really. If only he’d taken the boy to school on time that day, he wouldn’t have met her and this would not have happened. This. This cobweb from which he was about to sever himself. She would understand. She would understand that he’d been lonely with her late hours at work and that the affair had been short-lived. She would forgive him and they could forget about everything.

            A car door slammed in the driveway and he strode to the garage door with a sudden rush of euphoria. He felt almost giddy with the prospect of relief. She reached the door before he did and it burst open. But it was not she who opened it. His neighbor pulled him through the door and in the street he saw two cars, an ashen-faced teenager standing dumbstruck next to a Corvette, and he saw her screaming over the body of their son. A blur of flashing red lights crossed his vision and he heard the voices of paramedics somewhere in the background.

            “Time of death? Time of death: 6:45 PM.”

The Bats

I spoke to the bats after bedtime

At the witching hour, when,

formless, at first,

the inky blackness

would emerge from the walls

into paperthin wings.

And the glimmer of two tiny green jewels

would meet the glimmer of mine

Blinking, wide-eyed, unmoving,

My sweet phantoms.

I spoke to them after bedtime

when the door cracked open a sliver

and my limbs would tense into numbness.

Footsteps, the creak of the bedframe.

An unwelcome hand.

Then I’d summon my friends,

my apparitions,

and watch them fly in silence

across the ceiling.

Some nights they’d flutter

Like young butterflies just released from their cocoons

Other times I would watch them in slow motion,

Like manta rays patrolling some dark sea.

Always, they would stare

And it hypnotized me.

But when the door creaked closed again,

So would my trance.

And the bats would fade back into their caves,

The corners of the room.

I begged them not to go,

But the little jewels would blink into blackness,

Evaporated.

The pain would come easily, now.

And I’d ask the bats to not let me remember,

But unwelcome hands leave red marks,

And there’s only so much the bats can do.