We sat at the poker table,
single hanging light our game.
I had a corona, him a bud light,
his scythe was leaning on a wall.

I had a full house in my hand,
I watched Death toss two cards.
The chips on the table piled on,
by no means were my chips down.

His black robe hid his eyes,
I didn't think he bluffed much.
Took a swig of my beer,
and I laid my hand down.

(A's & 8's)

With a chuckle, he laid his,
beautiful row of all suicide kings.
With a frown, he fleeced me good,
took everything that I had.

He got up under that light,
grabbed his scythe with a bone hand.
Checked his watch, professed to be late,
but stopped me with a finger pointed.

"You still owe me," he said,
"$20 dollars, and I will collect."
I just nodded, watched him walk,
I knew he'd get it sooner or later.

10/15/2006

Author's Note: Originally written on Poetry DMV on April 2006

Posted on 10/15/2006
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