Matt Kindelmann Poet Narrative

Tuesday Night Poker

On the occasional Tuesday night,
with my mother at work
and my sisters and I 
in our pajamas,

my father would invite over
his brothers
and his friends 
from the lumberyard
to drink beer and play
five card stud.

I was allowed 
to greet each player and 
watch the opening hand.

Each man 
would arrive with something:
a sixer of canned Budweiser,
a bag of potato chips,
a metal band-aid box 
filled with nickels and dimes.

Benny, 
the stout and jolly 
lumberyard foreman
with his thick skinned paws 
and a Popeye tattoo 
on his forearm,
would bring chocolate bars-
the king-sized ones 
from the candy aisle 
at the supermarket-
for my sisters and me.
He was like a blue collar Santa.

Uncle Guy 
brought his good luck charm-
a Canadian nickel.
Not knowing that 
it was not uncommon,
I was intrigued by the beaver.
My uncle would place 
the nickel on the table
next to his vodka on the rocks
and fresh deck of cigarettes
just before the first hand was dealt.

Uncle Buddy, 
with his Magnum mustache 
and light blue eyes,
would bring his laugh-
a hearty hoot of a laugh 
that would be heard,
although somewhat muffled,
through my bedroom walls
long after I brushed my teeth 
and was sent to bed.

I’d hear the snap and fizz 
of beer cans being opened
and the jingling and jangling 
of growing pots
as I lay in my bed,
wide awake with the caffeine 
from Benny’s chocolate bars.

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