Sometimes Tuesdays make sense

She comes from nowhere
just appears;
a stranger of cups
suddenly dealt upside down
from a deck
you know is marked by the divine

and so

when you shake hands
another wind god wakes
and starts licking the dice

and so

you order wine
because what more is there to do
when she’s on every chip
you’re playing for
with trembling hands
and earmarked credit cards

Losers

She spoke the language of love
with a strong Eastern European accent
Everywhere she went, losers would pretend
to be confident men
and speak to her

She made some losers winners
her long blonde hair in their fist
her mouth encircling their erections
in the most gratifying of ways

Some other losers she ignored
Allowing them to remain losers
(You can still hear their lonely cries echo
through the night as they jump between open tram wagons
Casting a lustful eye on young women going home from bars)

Yet other losers
she would subject to a most cruel torment.
She would call them in the middle of the night
one hand holding her cellphone and
the other between her legs
voice hoarse and husky on the telephone line,
sharp intakes of breath
an unreachable metronome
Her body was a prize to die for, her eyes hard
the line of her mouth unforgiving
and her labia perfect, a gateway to G-d
a doorway to oblivion
far out of reach