Roll
Last week I had perspective served to me on a silver platter
with a side of suckerpunch and “Good luck, kid”
and I thought, so if life was a pair of dice
my plans would be snake eyes
with scales of suffering and inevitability unsheddable.
And as if this shroud of scales weren’t constant enough
now I’ve got this platter in front of me
teasing evanescence
shooting subways up my veins,
and I’m thinking, what is that sound?
Coming from the edge?
And the waiter, that pretentious tyrant,
you know he thought he was serving my death sentence
with a smirk and “inadequate” tattooed across him
but I’ve never been more alive
‘cause I devoured this suckerpunch, fork and knife and resolution
and chased it down with a bit of tequila apathy-
I’m riding my blood the pulsing subway,
And I’ll roll for snake eyes and go bankrupt doing it.
