poem

 Gamble

The thrill of gambling for some 

Isn’t just the winning or losing

It’s believing you know what’s coming.

They say the quants have taken all the fun

Out of the games but that isn’t true.

There remains a pleasure in solving a puzzle

Everyone else leaves to chance.

Don’t underestimate that euphoric rush

Mushroom clouding inside you

When the dealer flips over the card

You absolutely knew was coming next.

It isn’t luck. It’s calculated.

I don’t mean scripted,

Only that there are sometimes patterns

That get repeated, leading to outcomes 

Reliably predicted.

Then there are the mystics bad at maths

They get a feeling in their gut 

And lose themselves in a moment

Time seems to slow, lurch forward, stop again before it reverses

An image appears. A color. A number.

The name of the girl they should have texted 

They begin to remember the future.

I don't bet on anything 

Because nothing is known

And everything that happens 

Only happens once. 

Until this very moment

I suppose it’s true I’ve never been

Anything more than a probability.

Only in retrospect was there ever any doubt. 

These are the stakes I’m used to

Even to believe in uncertainty

Is enough of a gamble.

10/30/25

poem

 Gratitude

God must have thought

It would be obvious

To us,

To be grateful

For this— all this 

That we would accept it as a gift

Even though it isn’t.

A gift is supposed to make you happy

Even if it’s just another pair of socks—

Someone has gone to the trouble

Of picking the silliest ones,

Eggs over easy polka dotting

A groovy purple background,

Wrapped them up neatly and is now 

Watching you tear it open

With a rapturous shine in her eyes.

When we lifted the lid of our lives

It would have been nice 

To see the laugh lines of God 

Crinkled in the ribbons

Before we ever saw 

What was inside.

10/28/25

poem

 Reconciliation

I rewatch the video

Of our reconciliation

Whenever I’m distraught

Each moment plays out

So unexpectedly

Even after all these years 

Of waiting for it to happen

Every line is nothing

I would have written

Like dialogue half heard

Two tables over

In a noisy cafe.  

And I especially don't like 

The two actors playing us,

So wooden and formulaic.

Couldn’t they have gotten

Anyone better?

I’m tall and your hair is wrong 

Besides, it’s long

And drawn out,

Gets bogged down 

In its own smug

Sense of inevitability.

I fall asleep 

Halfway through.

Truth be told,

I’ve never watched it

All the way to the final credits

So I can't be sure 

If it really ends 

With a kiss

10/26/25

poem

 Patient List

I make a new list every morning

It tells me where my patients are

I check the films and labs

And then go see them, one by one,

Starting on the top floor

And working my way down.

Then I make a list in my head

Of everything they all need.

There’s a list for the sickest patients

And another for those

Who seem to be getting better.

I’m in the room of the one 

Whose status is yet to be determined.

There is also a list only I can see.

Every time I check it

Another name is missing.

10/19/25

poem

 Translation

As we begin to connect 

Your words become more and more direct

While mine bend toward the abstract.

We don’t know what the other is saying

But somehow it works. 

We only know we are happier

Together.

Two languages in one

Conversation puts a premium,

Of course, on proper translation.

Not every word, alas, has a direct equivalent

Leave it to me 

To see that blue

Is only a melancholic black

While you’re the one tasked 

With teaching me how 

To wrap my lips around a word

I’ll never learn to say 

But should.

Call it repressed memory

Buried under a backfill of facts

A feeling that used to be automatic

Just say it, she says

By the end of the night

We’re rolling on the floor

Speaking in tongues

Ecstatic

10/19/25

poem

 Slack

He gave his mother 

Generous coils of slack

Recalling her torrents 

Of wild banshee screaming 

About things neither he

Nor his sisters could control

Imagine how loud it must

Have been inside her head 

That some had to escape

Just to have itself heard 

Small isolated joys 

Are never enough to infect

The ones you love

Only anger gets released

Like pus under pressure

Beneath the skin

For everything else

His immune system 

Was unusually strong

Isolating and then attacking

Any good feeling

Before it had a chance

To build up 

And come out all wrong

10/19/25

poem

 Insofar

We only exist insofar as we 

Are observed

The idea of the hermit is to put

This hypothesis to the test

Every day, he wakes and finds himself

Still there. Even though hasn’t seen a soul

In years. But at the end of all his

Meditations, his prayers, and holy fasting,

He remains. Hungry and sad and wondering. 

It’s a glitch in the experiment,

A confounding factor that can’t be

Entirely eliminated. 

Even invisibility engenders a certain feeling 

The way solitude bleeds into loneliness.

The problem requires a distraction, usually 

In the form of another person. 

It’s your only hope.

Yes, if you pick the wrong person

It’s worse than being stranded 

On the moon

But don't let that stop you.

Doesn’t even have to be the right person

Whatever that may mean.

We’re talking mere seconds

Here, a flash of recognition,

A shared belly laugh.

Do that a few times per day or week

Or whatever you need

And you start to forget 

What it was like before

We were two. 

To be alone and self-forgetting 

Is an existential impossibility

Only God can pull off.

The narcissist fears his own

Annihilation so much he can't 

Take his eyes off himself.

When he tires he gathers

Everyone around and forces

Them to watch until he wakes up.

The nihilist positions himself between 

Two facing mirrors.

He stands in the middle 

And watches himself get smaller

And smaller until the last 

Of the light

10/19/25

poem

 The Back Story

There’s a new back story

Check it out!

The winter snow now

Comes from the moon

Shedding slivers of itself

Cold enough to last 

The long fluttery trip down.

Rain is more or less a function of the sun

It just means something is melting 

Way up there.

This is the new back story

The back story is nostalgia for loneliness 

And heartache and a pot of chicken

Noodle soup simmering on the back stove. 

The back story is always whispering 

In your ear just loud enough for no one

Else to hear. 

It’s full of confusing anecdotes

And false memories your father 

Is now convinced actually happened. 

The new back story isn’t written

Down or play acted or ad libbed

You just say your lines

And get off the stage as fast as you can.

The new back story is a scare 

Story we tell the little kids 

Anytime they get out of line.

It’s rich in detail but devoid

Of any context. Someday this 

Poem will be part of it  

Too. 

The new back story eats lima beans

For supper and then spits them out

Unchewed into a napkin

So mom will think he cleaned his plate.

This is the new back story

The back story is the subject

Of an 8th grader’s science experiment

The null hypothesis denies

Any responsibility for the way

We are now. The alternative 

Hypothesis asserts that we 

Have always been nothing

But back story

10/19/25