We all have our way of throwing sevens:

Jackculedlip and swore

And spit a dance on wiggling legs

And backbone


Slashing wrist back

With a pat of his assandscreamed

“dere it is”;



Clicked dice between ringed fingers

Rolled them across palms

Talking low and solemn

Released with the weight of his body bending over

And clapped;


Me, concentrating into cupped hands

Magic breath and smile

Ease back stylistically

Jerk forward and back my wrist

With confidence.


Somewhere in the back alley lay

Ragged dollar bills

Where we scuffedshoes

Running from the police.