My poem, Poker, was just published by New World Writing. Here is the poem

          Poker

It is nothing to me who runs the Dive.
Let’s have a look at another five.
–Robert Frost in Dive’s Dive

My grandma taught me.
She wasn’t some namby-pamby
who’d let her grandson win
to build his self-esteem.

Nah. She took my allowance
and my lunch money
and had me out on my bike
delivering the Daily News.

She showed me how to mix
and deal—from the top, bottom
and middle, like a card sharp
on a Mississippi paddle boat.

She taught me position,
the ratio of pot to bet,
and had me calculate
the odds of a draw on the fly.

Nana let me watch her games
to teach me tells—
catch when six finger Johnny taps his toes
and black-eyed Susan rubs her nose.

She taught me to look a stranger straight in the eye
and lie. Convince him my five cards,
good only to mark a place in books,
was at least a high straight.

Grandma kept the money she won
from me for in a glass pickle jar.
I always thought I’d get it back—
but not a nickel.