Let It Ride, Michael Flohr.
We hadn’t pawed felt in quite some time,
my father and I. He’d embraced retirement,
simple yet busy times, and I’d commissioned
too much work. I spent what I had left with
my wife and kids. Wives at a concert,
kids with a sitter, and we drank Maker’s Mark.
The spirits, laughter and high-fives, skittered across
the room Cirque De Soleil-like. Drifting moments
find the table, chips stacked neatly, while Blue
Eyes has both of our toes taping. An ace of
spades comes off, followed by the ace of
diamonds. Pops’ grin suggests I won’t split.
“Split ‘em,” I boast. I hit. Another
ace. Crowd gathering, he shakes his head.
“Hit me,” I say, letting whisky call my shots.
A final ace falls, the joint erupts. Bullets
across the table, eyes wide, and my heart
rumbles like the first time I saw her.
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