Webster’s Deal

a poem by Michael Marks

Playing poker with my pain pills,
rarely lasting dose to dose,
I speak the dead language of trash,
a faded X on the shoulder of my casted arm
propped on my plastic pony, unsaddled,
one leg up to the vernal equinox.
I trade new distress for confusion,
catching relief like rain on my tongue
from tired problems suspiciously forgotten.
I will follow your shadow now
to try to step to white from black.

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