A Few Loose Dice
A small collection of dice in a far corner
of the antique store. Very few match.
Ivory, brown and black. Different sizes
according to the need to gamble,
the chances, that games.
It is a strange fascination you have
for the games people play, the risks
they will take and for what.
There’s no reason to it. No logic.
A game they call it. The thrill of the uncertainty,
the power of rows of dots to choose
the future, the winners and the losers,
represented here on the small table
by mismatched die.
Where, you wonder, are the missing mates?
Lost? Tossed away in a fit of disgust,
the players no longer willing to play?
You laugh at yourself, at your own gambles,
some spectacular failures.
Some equally spectacular in their payoff,
none with dice, or cards or spinning wheels,
but a gamble none the less,
You finger the dice. Feel them in your hands,
cold at first, but warming as you roll them in your palm,
imagining a world full of games with different rules
and objects and risk, all being played at the same time,
on the same table, your own a tiny ripple,
nothing more. Nothing less.
About this poem
Ever think about the chances we take? Even the not taking a chance is a gamble. I look back at mine in wonder.