The cigarette smoke rises above the poker table
Open sores and open wallets
A puddle of money
Washing the floors
With greed and hunger
Every hand is breath
Every tick, tock, tick
Of the clock gives soundtrack to the night
With hangdog eyes
And keen sense
The players wipe the small crystaline beads of sweat from their brows
The night moves forward like a slug leaving it’s long wet and slipper trail
I look up to my father as I hold the groceries in small brown paper bag
A carton of eggs, milk, chocolate chip cookies, toilet paper and some turkey meat.
I tug on his shirt like any 9 year old would
“Dad” I whisper.
“Mom is going to worry.”
He shoos me away taking another puff of his desire.
Never taking his eyes off the table.