Loganthinks

He is next to me at the table,

betting twenty at a time, polyester and sly eyed

like a child pretending

not to understand the reasoning behind the green machinery.

Men with dry bread hands

drink to the clink of currency

echoing off gold teeth and ring fingers,

spitting at the resilience of numbers.

A ticket away from drafty houses;

mahogany like stiff skin,

frozen in a lonely smile,

the sharp teeth lost in some sweet summer shade.

I cannot assign value as he does:

elements so distant

brought together by rigid maths

leave me to imagine

that this power to define

is some true evolution,

or more likely,

lunacy.