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?