I’m not the gambling type, not since
I squealed at a winning scratch off when I was seven
And my mom snatched it away,
Frightened by the same glee in my eyes
That she saw in my father’s.
I didn’t trust myself after that.
You were the gambling type
As long as you knew the game, you could find a way
To win when better men had lost it all.
It was work based on luck, chance, and circumstance,
And yet you turned a profit anyhow.
We were reckless, you and I.
You, betting everything on 25 brunette;
I, peeking through spread fingers at the cards in my hand.
You turned love into a game of roulette,
While I counted cards, guessing what to expect.
It’s the last hand, the last spin,
And we’ve both put all our chips in.
Are we the lucky ones?