Saloon At The End of The World

There’s always four at the table
waiting on the river,
feet tapping the floor
like demented woodpeckers.
The next gamers line up,
silent, outside in the hallway.

A player will say,
“I’m getting too old for this shit.”
The dealer deals. One hand becomes ten,
ten twenty, the chips clink and pile.

Maybe it’s the resigned stare,
maybe the pursed lips,
a raised eyebrow,
a shrug, a slow intake of air.
Everybody leaves the table in the same way.
Leftover chips get tossed on the baize,
chair legs scrape back and they’re gone,
last seen elbowing through the gamers,
a hand or two tugging at sleeves,
eyes asking yet knowing the answer.