Playing the Odds
The cream
of the
crop the
chosen few
the golden
boys of
youth it
all turns
sour
so fast
like bottled
milk in
the sun
like Kenneth
Patchen’s
wrenched back
like black
orchids
on a
coffin lid
like Tiny
Tim without
crutches like
a bolt
of pain
in your
chest that
drops you
to the
floor like
when your
wife over
breakfast
puts her
toast down
& says
she’s met
someone new.
There’s a
lesson in
all this
a grim
certainty an
invitation to
suicide or
an abrupt
change in
lifestyle a
fresh start
played out
on the
same old
turf.
The ouija
board or
Tarot cards,
take your pick.
