Dealers Cut

Friday night, the old pit glows,

dingy den where stale smoke flows.

Whiskey stings, cards slap the grain,

faces smear in bourbon’s reign.

Queen slides first—love’s jagged blade,

a street brawl’s bruise that won’t fade.

Call or fold, the stakes don’t lie,

hearts get busted, so do I.

Ace glints next—health’s sly charade,

pills and sweat, a fool’s crusade.

Grease outruns the treadmill’s hum,

every vice a loaded drum.

Deuce of cash—pockets groan thin,

debts like rust eat hope to skin.

Chasing ghosts through neon haze,

dice rattle out my numbered days.

Jack, then ten—work’s grinding jest,

startup spark drowned in the chest.

Cubicles cage, clocks carve deep,

coffee’s buzz, a junkie’s sleep.

Dealer’s grin cuts through the din,

taunts land sharp beneath my skin.

Life’s a fix, all edges frayed,

winners claw, the losers played.

Last chips fall, I smirk at doom,

all-in thrust to fate’s cold room.

She leans close, her whisper bare:

“Fold or fight—we’re both threadbare.”

FSF