Though I don’t myself
it is good to me to know
somewhere in a smoky
basement
poker is played
on the hex
oak surface
of the suburb.
Though I don’t like
them myself
next to cornfield stubble
german cars
are shown
off the highway
by a young man
gambling on the
wheels and that
a car’ll earn
more than roulette
took
from the neighbor
kids.
Though there is
no difference
between them anymore,
being driven,
on an exhilarated
saturday,
hanging out
with an older girl
on a cold mid
morning.