All the matches are printed “Hook’s Casino.”
They do Casino Night right, here under hatches
at the Hookery Spa.
The dykes from the next bunk turned unfriendly.
I may not be cool.
Reading may not be the alternative to Hook’s Casino.
Big boy! Stiffen that thought and hold it, won’t you?
Yassir Igotcha, the half-Palestinian, third-Minneapolisan,
stirred at sight of the dice. I’m like nice.
But not very. I got the roil of
American swells, the bugs and sad TV sedimentation,
the gamboling cells under glass in the stratified light,
a limpid one-two over chips on the felt.
I might not be right. Freeweights away,
Hook’s wheels spin on far and long in the night.