At the scene of Gambling
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.
Copyright © Chinedum Ekwobi | Year Posted 2020
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