So small and impotent on the table,
blanched and blotted
on every side. I scoop them up
make a fist like a rattle: shake and roll.
Yahtzee! I wanna yell, but don’t.
Instead I read the random numbers
like runes, give up the hawing and the doubt,
the sleepless nights, the fear
and let the knucklebones divine what happens next
between odds and evens, yeses and nos.
My part’s merely the question:
Join the circus?
Give the drifter a lift?
Learn to Lindy Hop?
Water the orchid?
With so little choice and empty of worry
my days are like free jazz
filled with wagers and crapshoots.
I am a gambler thru and thru -
now that there’s nothing to decide.
Is this what it means to die?