Kaelen's snippets

The Pilgrim’s Bet

We went to the city of false light To count the rings on an oak of fifty years. Not a quiet wood, but a canyon of noise, Where a siren in red sequins sang of sponges and dares, And the air smelled of sugar and old luck.

We walked the concrete bridge—a pilgrimage of knees— To the black and silver cathedral that eats the sky. We stood in the purple haze of a demented tiki room, And toasted with weak spirits to strong bonds.

But the magic was not in the tower or the sphere, It was on the felt, where the dice tumbled hard. A stranger in an Oregon hat cast a line, And we caught the current together.

The house always wins, they say. But on the bridge, and at the table, And in the laughter of the grey-bearded boy, We beat the house. We took the money and ran.