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they’d play poker on Wednesday’s some weeks
and called it a tradition
even though it happened without regularity 
and it was mainly quietly sipping malt liquor from a garage refrigerator
and losing money and minds in unison
in a state of vague indifference
or maybe an eagerness to lose
so they could finally go home
though I never saw anyone leave
but I’d ask dad about the tradition 
and he’d say maybe someday I’d do the same
saying that losing with friends
was better than doing it alone
and I never asked about any alternative 
because there weren’t words for that
so I’d lay in bed as fall turned to winter
and listen to losing that sometimes didn’t sound like it
based of the laughter that hung in ethanol air 
and sometimes I’d try and recall that laughter
later in life
or the smell of burning corn or the sound of dying cicadas 
and I never could
I later asked dad if he remembered that laugh
and he said he didn’t
and I wondered if it were the insects laughing
at our game 
or the inevitability that some day soon
we’d rub our legs together too and wait for it to get cold so we could finally die

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