The day of the tournament Fat Eddie woke up
on some drunks passed out in a pile, squeezing his head
he felt more rested than ever that day. “Laying on life!”
Shouted a shot up target that fanned cards in circles
at his sides, “Bet on yourself!” he flung down a board
with pieces and winning potential, but the game was slanted
and tricky, because money taken and offered spends alike.
As Fat Eddie would say, “Dumb is all the rage”
and he was right more often than not by far,
so suckers dropped shekels by the boatload
at harvest time, but in the interim he walked around open
to the long con, risky back-table hoodlums
offering nothing for nothing, but she was a dainty
taunt at a ball, and his hands were awful sticky.
Thin Lizzie was a whisp, foil for breezy whims
to claim with a backhand, wound tight like a clock
sprung up and over, she knew fat Eddie
was false in his play, that he had no money
just like her, but they play-acted all week
spending their charm, losing in the fantasy
making love all day, then they went home.