board, sport, momentum, spin, win, high,
instincts, foul, three, answer, hit, yellow
Takes a hit off a skinny cigarette. Small
table, hotel bar. Nicotine fingers, foul
and yellow, spin the Zippo through water rings.
An antique nickel pointer for a phantom
game of chutes and ladders, down and up and down
again. No ouija board answers or three strikes
and now you can stop. There’s no reason to be
a good sport. Win or lose the prize is nada.
Instinct wants her to censor herself. But she
knows that truth has the momentum of cancer.
She needs to be high again. It would be fine
at the top of the world, all poise and porcelain,
to be able to stand under the black sky
whirling around and around to the music.