hours we spent entertained with 52
dealing hands of five, seven, eight
when it was war the entire deck split
each of us in equal measure, we thought
poker for pennies, gin rummy, fish
solitary played alone sometimes
necessary relief or a desperate attempt
for something to do until someone
dropped onto the floor pointing out
the 5 could go on the 6 or the queen
of hearts on the king of spades as
an opposites attract ironic situation
the second born had long fingers
that shuffled the decks through
my childhood, his tongue pressed
against his lip; deep concentrated effort
dealership in the game of his choice
he called it bloody knuckles, the number
of cards remaining in your hand testified
to your length of punishment as the cards
were banged against the losers knuckles
he would almost always disseminate
the tortuous blows after asking
are you sure you can take it,
my head assuring him with a committed yes,
my hand in a requisite fist
the cards landing stingingly
those five loved that game with me
i always wonder over my losing so often
why did i keep playing at a game
where winning alluded me, my blood
the testimony i could be one of them
a game whose rules i failed to remember