A concealing poem and a not-concealing poem:

November 5, 2013

I have chosen as the subjects of my poems two that are fraught with revelation and the lack thereof:

Death and Poker 

My mother died in the middle of quick.

Not sudden;

nor slow and agonizing.

She took her news and made her plans.

As day turned into another day,

she died as she lived,

crossing things off her meticulous list.

When ready, she closed her eyes

And waved goodbye.

Not a crashing, shocking end,

Or the agonizing, drawn out, emaciating finish

But in the middle of quick;

a good leaving.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I know my hand. I glance at it from time to time

and make a habit

of keeping my eyes on the

table.

I’ve played what’s been dealt and at times

pulled to an inside

straight, against the judgment

on my shoulder.

When chips were

down,

I’ve called a bluff and

once or twice, tapped out. It's

not in my nature

to fold

but I learned from the

best,

when odds are against me, to not raise my

stakes.