Second Sight by Wesli Court

So that is what I’ve done. I’ve been the croupier

in life’s 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 won’t blink

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

I’ve been raking in what a good croupier

rakes in — 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 I’ve been cooking up. There’s nothing stales

a blend of blandishments quick as a blink

faster than losing interest at its height

even as one’s 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 “God” as one’s 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 “team.” You make your choice,

and if you manage to gain a little height

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

(or even if you don’t) the suave croupier

pushes over your pile of songs and tales

and you find out there is no game or team,

there’s only ice that chills you till you’re tame

and lowered by that croupier from about man’s height —

he doesn’t blink and he will tell no tales.