Clay Money: Poem
The format on this is a little off, but actually might enhance the meaning and fun of the poem. I hope you'll enjoy it and, as always, I'm open to critiques.
I understand that gambling is an addictive vice for nay people, and this poems seeks in no way to minimize that. Rather, it is simply a view into human beings using poker chips and the personas of men and women gathered around a poker table. I'm am also planning to revise this poem in the next few weeks, so please check back often.
Smooth clay money denominated
by color. On their face,
painted brightly the words LAST FRONTIER,
lying in furious short stacks of ten,
maliciously marching across
three deep and ten wide. The remainder rummage
between my fingers with a dull
as I watch the faces, numbers, shapes , colors letters fall,
across the felt
seeing how they match up with the ones
in my hand, bringing with them the rising
of the stacks.
I’m cautious to release them.
To my right, frightening stacks of twenty,
but only five wide, powerful
in a more obvious way. Their owner is careful, but somewhat
more careless then I. He does not finger
his remainder, but merely lets it lay there,
lonely and unstacked. He broods
and destacks, seemingly
without worry or care.
When he runs out,
he pulls out green wads of paper
and creates more stacks
To my left, uneven stacks that rise
and fall with haste, without nourishment
and with much frequency, seemingly with no regard
to the faces, numbers, shapes, colors and letters in his own hands,
not to mention the ones we all share
on the felt.
He shuffles his clay money between his fingers,
but doesn’t grow attached as they are tossed
amongst the others
far more frequently than mine—far more frequently
than everyone’s—and are rarely returned
or multiplied. Before long, the holder
and his haphazard clay money vanish
and order is returned.
I smile at the smoothness between my fingers.
all rights reserved. copyright Justin W. Price