Gambling

At the scene of Gambling Discreet voices And ones rambling: An easy riot of smell That could sicken ' The Well ' At where cards fall, A silencing admixture of mankind, Whom you could foxes call. On the eyes with tear drops Nothing might them dry As the heat of the heart tops And due at last, an audible cry. For the hands that uncommonly fold Some finishing bomb is ticking And they don't need to be told what they should be picking: Rarely, the wins find their way to banks All too soon blown away within their ranks. What a gambler tells his wife is to forget it ever happened Or keep picturing the piercing knife And the gash it opened.