Magic Number
The dealer is exquisite. Cards
Flip in the air, spin, land face-up
right where they need to in order
to bust you. But it's not
the house's fault you've never
been able to resist split jacks
or the draw to a soft sixteen.
Shapeless, eager, your desire
to be too weighted down
by 11oz. trophies to walk
drives you to try and learn
counting, memorize tables
of aces and kings, practice
magic trick in the kitchen
at 4:15AM while a glass
of milk warms beside you.
And yet when the felt
beckons and you sit down
with three stacks of Cannery
Row, the only things you
can remember are “don't
take any wooden nickels”
and “never draw to an inside
straight.” You look down.
Pocket jacks.
Flip in the air, spin, land face-up
right where they need to in order
to bust you. But it's not
the house's fault you've never
been able to resist split jacks
or the draw to a soft sixteen.
Shapeless, eager, your desire
to be too weighted down
by 11oz. trophies to walk
drives you to try and learn
counting, memorize tables
of aces and kings, practice
magic trick in the kitchen
at 4:15AM while a glass
of milk warms beside you.
And yet when the felt
beckons and you sit down
with three stacks of Cannery
Row, the only things you
can remember are “don't
take any wooden nickels”
and “never draw to an inside
straight.” You look down.
Pocket jacks.
Crankshaft
When your slow cooker cracked,
spilled would-be cranberry preserves
all over counter, drawers, parquet,
you paused to consider the resemblance
to Erzsebet Bathory's tub. Still,
you collected dish towel after dish
towel, hoped you wouldn't have
to break out the family linen.
Next harvest you'll try again
with the pressure cooker.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Riverrun, and Third Wednesday, among others.
