Gambling Man

He wrote me a sonnet,

signed the T’s, crossed his name

and offered it as one last apology.

No Shakespeare, Italian nor English

it rambled on, pointless, like every time we tried to speak

or listen or do anything but lust.

We are a card game.

He said he hoped for a draw

so we could both win.

One look around the table,

the chips, the cheats, the snakes,

and I had to fold.