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Gamble

by Damian Anderson

I draw. . .
slowly, with a soft whistle around,
piles of green, to place on the velvet

I draw. . .
out my glove, reaching forward to meet
that of the dealer, dealing my hand

I draw. . .
my next turn, my hand full of cards,
to play against men, a man’s game

I draw. . .
on ancestral instincts, to help
guide my hands, calmly, “All in”

I draw. . .
on the silent despair, bittered
when I’m matched by excess

I draw. . .
in my breath burning tight,
my face deadpan calm, mechanical

He folds. . .

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