Not like the olden days, no,
sitting ‘round a smoky table,
holding sweat-stained cards,
holding his face statue-still.
No, this cowboy was scratching,
scratching silver dust from
a single shining card,
still trying his luck.
A mesh hat shaded his effort.
Brown marble eyes
with no white in them,
searched for the easy out.
His small, smooth face,
beiged by filtered sun,
contrasted with his arms,
leather-ridged by work.
He scratched so patiently,
looking for that break from
the badges of life stamped
on the stains of his jeans.
But no luck today, just
silver shavings on
hot pavement, cardboard
tossed in the trash bin.His eyes, deeply, looked up.
But they did not see me.
He walked away without a prize.