A Hurting Hand - Ben Hedges

A Hurting Hand

Staring at one another
That’s all it comes down to in the end
A field of green separating two bulls
one going home rich, the other poor.
Towers holding the weight of multicolored plastic
They may not be worth thousands
But they’re the ticket to thousands.
You lift your cards, he does the same
The plastic whispers its secrets.
He strikes, the field is littered.
You glace at the mess,
A junkyard of treasure.
You look at him, his darkened specs are a shield
So you look elsewhere to hear the words that his lips won’t speak.
He is motionless
A self-portrait of himself he leaves behind in his stead.
You grip plastic, more than he has offered
Adding to the chaos in the center.
You are both digging graces
But you have to risk digging deeper
If you want to reach the surface.
The corner of his lip rises, the portrait smiles
The hammer on the pistol ready to fire.
One hand grabs currency, the other cards.
Segregated royalty is revealed
A 10 and the only four letters of the alphabet you care about stare at you.
The bullet penetrates, your towers crumble, and yet
The slate in the middle is swiped clean.
Time to make another mess.