someone cut the deck

we play

cards long into the night.

all of us

old men,

circled

under the dim lights,

the low music

from the corner

stereo.

cold beer

on tap.

a bowl of pretzels,

a bowl of nuts.

we've told all

of our stories,

and we'll them again,

we're still here,

but

we've played our hand,

we still meet

just the same,

same place, same time,

same table, the old deck

of cards being

shuffled by old hands.