The Game

Drank tea this morning from a college cup,
the product of Homecoming, something hard
to bring back and regard.
                                          I’ve had my swings:
my jobs, my wives, my children. Hits add up
and still, life’s been a gamble: dice or cards,
a crap game or at table, both skill and luck.

No other way around it. Call it fate.
The planets in the heavens load our plates
with things to eat or empty: love and hate.

And labor.  Always labor. Just plain work.
It takes a lot of muscle, rocks and dirt
and shovels, picks and hammers. Pigs don’t sweat,
but work require sweating.
                                            None of that
when young. When quarry swimmers jumped from stone
as white as snow to water blue as eyes
and clear clear to the bottom. No one dived
or could dive down so far: too far, too cold.
We held where sun was hot and skin turned gold.

And so chose life.  And leaned against our luck
and still worked hard in case our luck should fail.
It wasn’t fate we thought of; knuckled down
or simply shrugged and went along with life,
still not yet tough enough for luck to own.

The checks came through, and women, wine and song.
We spent it all, the limit, soon were known
and through youth’s brash existence learned to rue
the cost of rash behavior, then took hold
and tried to take control.
                                         Bought cars and homes,
grew lawns along with children, screwed our wives
and also wives of friends. Kids paid the price:
divorce and small apartments, booze and beer,
and analysts and diets.                                      
                                                What was clear
was loss of all control, so tried again
with second wives, more children. Did it work?
Not so somebody noticed.  Life goes on
and we go on, unnoticed. That’s the fear:
that we are who we are, can be ignored,
are nothing much that’s special; like our friends,
did not choose to be born, choose not to die,
but, finally, see no difference.
                                                      So we pause
with whiskey, tea or milk. Drink joins our lives
into one grand confession. Skill or luck,
it doesn’t make much difference. Some have ups,
some downs, and some will score. The others don’t.

The difference? Who’s to say? It’s here today,
tomorrow gone. It’s best not to regret.
Life carries on and living holds our interest.
We have lost when life has become boring
and we toss our last hard pair of dice,
then walk away, not even glancing back
because it makes no difference: we are lost.