craps shoot at thought café

in backroom
at the thought café
game of craps
was ongoing for as long
as I recall.

most of the regulars
were there with
their money folded
long ways between
middle and ring fingers.

action was a little
slow, and regulars
were looking for new
meat.

they looked my way,
and I shook my head, no
and said, “I don’t gamble.”

“why are you smoking that
damn pipe and drinking
cabernet?” they asked.

“we all pick our poisons,”
I replied. “yours is booze,
blow, smack, and cigarettes,” I
rejoined further.

at that moment a man came
out of the head with a
tourniquet still wrapped
round his arm, sleeve still
rolled up, a drop of blood
oozing from the hole in his vein
where he fixed himself,

unsteady on
his feet as he leaned
back into the game.
all were silent,
gazing at the rivulet
of blood, now almost to
his wrist.
I shook my head,
lit my pipe, and ordered
another glass of wine,

turned to the junkie craps
shooter with a look
of benevolence, emptied
my glass, and walked towards
the exit.

on the street I looked
up at the marquee.

in staccato neon
flashed the words --
thought café.
i wondered who named
the place.

as I walked on down
the road,
the man wearing the
tourniquet
rolled snake eyes,
turned up his toes
and died.

he thought he was
going to win the pot
after his hot shot.

that's what you get
for thinking
at the thought
café.