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

looking up, always
the view on tiptoes
to reach what is not
mine to have
even on level ground
I stretch to be there
forward, around and
sometimes down below
yet ever present is the
desire to get there,
where you are
even when I
am not wanted
needed for me
just my presence
unnecessary
not ever enough
missing the mark
this spot of lonely
where I am
simply forgotten
the light, the vibration
given no credence
no attention, not
a looksie until
my dreams
overtake me
and you sneak
a peek
maybe I will
answer and fill
the emptiness
of a moment
when you wonder
out of boredom
or unadulterated
curiosity if I
can’t live
without reaching
one more time
for a star that
was not mine
to ever have
reached for
with a chin that
mistakenly was
held high, adoring

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