We sit, primped, at the time of a quick life
and a prayer for a good hand. Flowers
as red as the ace of hears in my hair.
White flowers, white as poker chips, in your
buttonhole. The gun hidden beneath your
coat matches the night, a hertz, and lampposts.
I'm known as slow when I lay my hand down.
This slowness aggravates them; lead to plays
too quick for their money. Money flows out
their pockes into mine at the right speed.
He lived a quick life. Too quick to pray, Please
help me win. His best friend pulled the trigger,
quickly leaving the cinema into
a barrage of my counsin's quick temper.
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