smoke rises in lazy scripture,
telling the same story every gambler knows by heart:
you don’t burn the pot to stay warm.
-
You burn it to see,
for one unblinking second,
how bright the losing hand can glow
before it turns to ash.
-
And there, in the flare,
I catch your eye across the table.
No nod.
No sorrow.
-
Just the smallest, driest smirk,
the kind that says
we always knew the river would brick us,
and we bet everything anyway.