Poker Pout

The gyre of chance: swirls in swirls;
the cards are so cold,
colder than the click of a door
locking out hope.
I push my chips to
another stack, no regrets,
no goodbyes offered,
not even “see ya later.”
My lips pout.
Is that a tell?



About Jim Stewart

Writer at Butt in Chair
This entry was posted in Consciousness, Poem, Poker, Slice of Life, Sport and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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