Cards
My Grandpa, bent over the table, shuffles.
His gnarled hands make the bent cards jump and fly.
Whizzing around, they reorder themselves,
and the new game begins.
It’s Texas Hold ‘em, and his poker face is unreadable.
My eyes scan his weathered face,
looking for the chink in his armor,
but it’s like trying to read a brick wall.
I bid first.
As the coins tumble out of my hands like copper waterfall,
I hope the large pool they form will intimidate, or even scare him.
My grandpa reads my face like an open book and calls my bluff.
I gulp to myself.
I begin to get sucked in,
like a ship being drawn in to a whirlpool.
The pennies and dimes seen to walk on their own out of my bag into the pot.
I am no longer in control,
and I can feel the panic begin to well up in me,
choking me.
My grandpa is in control,
ruling over the game with a firm hand,
manipulating everything.
The final hand arrives,
and there he sits across from me,
bent over the table, an ancient statue,
as steady as a rock in a churning sea.
As we flip over our cards there are no surprises,
the game was decided a long time ago.
My Podcast
by Mike
