call him the tumbling dice
it dogs him, the hound
snapping at his heels, chewing at his collar bone,
sharply barking, leading him forward
to the house of cards on the promenade,
fairy-lit in all seasons, wheels
and numbers, red or black
jack, cherries, plums and lemons;
the fever seizes him
plucks coins from his pocket, feeds
the growling mutt who vomits back
a little and allows him to
limp home in the grey dawn to
broken biscuits and unwashed sheets
