Long Odds

your TV repairman

turned stepfather

lines up

metal folding chairs

between

the aboveground pool

and the bank

of outdoor TV sets

lining the double-wide

setting the stage

moments before

the pack

arrives

*

they take

their seats

before

their gods

as if they know their places

each to his throne

the lot of them

sinking

into their outdoor offices

offering silent prayers

to the basketball gods,

the football gods,

the indifferent gods

placing folded bills

like open secrets

into hidden jacket compartments

that anyone,

even your baby brother,

could find

*

on rectangular strips

of unlined white paper,

they scratch number two pencil notes

keeping records,

each using some unbreakable code he made up once

and now,

given it worked once

way back when,

he has to use it

always

*

your mother tosses in

a four-cheese

while smoking

and drinking

and pacing

the full length

of the low ceiling

living room

kicking her painted toes

into beige low pile

passing by

toys

and empty soup cans

and drugstore Malbec bottles

and yesterday’s news

anxious

for her numbers

to come up

*

and you can’t

hang out

with me

again

because

your baby brother

needs watching

and it won’t be anyone else

on account of

it never is

and I’m thinking

I’m getting

kind of

fed up

with the way

you’re always

putting

yourself

last

*

you deserve

so much better

than what you’re getting

*

so I throw down

what I’m holding,

nod to orange vest with the ruddy face

and smart watch

who took my last few

doubling down

in the second

and

if I’m lucky—when I get lucky—I’m telling you

for real

this time

I’m getting

you out

***

Copyright © 02/16/2019 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.