Only the
fffp,
fffp,
fffp,
of the cards circling around
the light wood table
break the silence
of strobe light spoons.

Two spoons, three people.

Occasionally clinked cans,
struck spoons,
muffled mouths from other rooms
find their way into the cold, desert night.

Two spoons, three people.

The smell of beer
from my opponents’ mouths
mixes with the taste
of anticipation on my lips.

Two spoons, three people.

Under the strobe light,
my cousins’ hands



disappear
then reappear.
My own move fast—
but under the trick of light—
seemingly s l o w.

One spoon, three people.

I grasp handfuls of cards,
my fingers searching for that seven.
Queens stroll by and stare.
Jacks make faces and mock.



One spoon, three people?


The silence has burst.
Who can snatch the spoon first?
Yelling and shouting,
bystanders are crowding.
Muscles contracting,
my mouth ends up laughing.
Strobe light is blinding.
Our hands are winding.
The fffping and
clinking and
beer cans all
tinking,
the lights and
the sights,
the silverware fights,
my broken nail
and your face gone pale,
are above the cards strewn,
as I grasp that
silvery,
shining bright
spoon.