Muse is my croupier. Who deals no card
sets no wheel spinning. Yet I stake my heart
each moment she is there. When we’re apart
I feel the gambler’s hunger. It is hard

to keep my tells from showing in my face.
We play. I can’t foresee which move she’ll make
but it’s her board, her table. One mistake
could lose the game. It’s only by her grace

we are still playing. Poem against smile
we wager precious things that have no cost.
She cannot lose. I win, not having lost
we are still here at table all this while

From other games, this is the one we choose
where time itself is all that we can lose


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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