Where the Chips Fall

"This might be worth some money now."

My uncle shows me a tattered black case.

It's unassuming, small, but nestled inside,

six pristine rows of poker chips

stamped with dark brown swastikas

wait for a game.  "Found 'em in a dresser

that came with the house."

As my uncle pours a row into my hands,

I see shadowy soldiers flinging chips onto a table.

I smell sweat and cigarette ash,

hear the clatter of chips slapping

against one another.  Clack, clack, clack,

like train wheels pulsing on rails,

shells falling from guns.

Stacks of chips reward the players.

Straight: capture a family from the ghetto,

Grandparents, parents, new baby boy.

Three of a kind: beat two pair,

hurl twin brothers to the ground.

Flush: crush five rabbis

wearing black yarmulkas,

then stack your winnings into mounds.

Clenching a chip in my fist, I feel

the coolness of its surface,

the heat of the swastika, a snarl of lines.

Six rows of chips, idle for decades,

lying forgotten, their value rising

as the players who used them pass

out of sight.  Six rows ready for a new game.