there must have been three
or four reasons why
the cards in your hand shook
waiting on the meld
smoke swirling around your lip
(swollen from the mouthpiece
of a stubborn trumpet) sky writing
secret indecipherable signals
playing your hand against your partner's
lack of bullets
"nothing but clothes" you said
a handful of jacks and queens
powerless in the endgame of tricks
but that's not what you were
thinking of i could tell
with the gin nearly empty
and the ashtray full of roaches
some sweet lucid larceny was taking place
and for a moment eyes meeting eyes
you pick-pocketed a parcel of
unsung refrains from within me
and never cracked a smile.
-- douglas brent smith