There he sat, butt muscles to leather,
seemingly custom made to his skin after
hours of full glasses of brown liquor
being consumed to their clear base state.

His eyes were red.
As red as the 7 stop lights
it took him to get here, but
not red enough to stop him from
what he was about to do.

He felt the velvet tailored table under the rolls
of his corporate white work shirt.
He glared into his glass; empty.
As empty as his heart.
He thought about the saying,
It wasn’t in the cards
and in the brief seconds that passed
he compared it to his life.
This was his last hand,
he had shoved all his chips
Into the pot of life.

Last hand.
He hoped hard that these
last moments would change something.
Seconds passed by as he
lifted his last hand.
The hope he had hoped for
wasn’t in the cards.

The soles of his shoes tilted back
as if they knew before he did.
As if they were ready more than he.
Head falling back with such elegance
like running thru the wind with silk fabric.
Head falling back,
from pulling the trigger.
His chips fell to the floor,
and he lost his hand.

by. Philip G. Steverson