Who will win you, be you... when we take up past lives, 
 

linger over fruit, a blackjack of planes  
 

and volumes of ourselves in the polish of systems gaming  
from which we now resign, in grace (3 cherries).   
 


A wild bet is the oldest touch in the darkest town  
 

[a friend’s lyrics] — buckets on red, someone’s lucky color  

in a city of red lights and streets, carnival streets losing identity 

with cabernet in bottles, women and men in  

off the streets, profiteers in cafes of Reno, I imagine!  

Let’s toast everyone holding a perfect suit  
 

in focus, carnival glass, reddish goblets letting the workday  
 

work away. Afterward, we leave home forever and go to college   
 

and get involved being there to face the sky.  
Tell me, poem friend.