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Second Sight by Wesli Court


So that is what Iíve done. Iíve been the croupier

in lifeís casino to this point, with ice

in my arteries. My column of tales

and songs has risen to a decent height

and I am old at last, although not tame

as maybe I should be. But I wonít blink


at this point, for why should I wish to blink?

Iíve been raking in what a good croupier

rakes in ó coin of the realm like leaves of thyme,

minutes and moments that one can use to spice

the pot of emptiness when it gains heat

enough to flavor these mortal tales


that Iíve been cooking up. Thereís nothing stales

a blend of blandishments quick as a blink

faster than losing interest at its height

even as oneís flesh grows crepier

with every year and hour. So, throw some ice

into the mix, perhaps, but never tame


the cold gazpacho one swallows nigh the tomb.

Trade the rake for a ladle, but keep those tales

swirling about in that bucket of mordant ice

and, before your readers can even blink,

serve it like a waiter, not a croupier,

when the flavor has hit its tasteful height.


Some folk feel that life is just a hoot,

a game of chance played with a friendly team

and not alone with ďGodĒ as oneís croupier

dressed in cummerbund and a set of tails

spinning the wheel. Before you can even blink,

the game is done and you are soused with ice


dumped on you by the ďteam.Ē You make your choice,

and if you manage to gain a little height

you place your bet, the wheel whirrs ó if you blink

(or even if you donít) the suave croupier

pushes over your pile of songs and tales

and you find out there is no game or team,


thereís only ice that chills you till youíre tame

and lowered by that croupier from about manís height ó

he doesnít blink and he will tell no tales.












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