The Omaha Gate
Lost in a card game
that others would pass
I feel the time slowing
while covering fast
A dim all-night roadhouse
blue plate of regret
whose neon but flickers
my hunger to bet
A pot full of memory
has come unannounced
with bare knuckled waging
I raise every doubt
But the road’s calling silent
its direction unclear
my thumb pointing inward
to ante the fear
The odds long but taken
to gamble and run
my fortune extended
and past rebegun
A graveyard sits lonely
on the side of a hill
awaiting those fated
last dealer to kill
A light in the distance…
the ‘Omaha Gate’
it’s twelve minutes early
tomorrow is late
Asleep in the boxcar
alone with myself
the questions keep playing
—one ace left undealt
(Sinking Springs Diner: December, 2021)
Copyright © Kurt Philip Behm | Year Posted 2021
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