Bear Poker

The following was whispered to me in perfect pentameter
by a large black bear that I met in the alley one winter night
behind Duckett’s Market in Ouray.
Why the bear chose to share the story is still not clear.
Jump in whenever the spirit moves you.

Jimmy John Card and his pal, Chip McCann
sat at Callahan’s table and dealt out bum hands.
The green felt was honored, a tenderfoot from France
Who brandished fine cutlery and a gun in his pants.

Through shuffles and side bets, throats cleared, poker stares
Drinks all around and in the fourth chair a bear.
That was me…the fourth player disguised in a cloak
though my hairy exterior, suspect when I spoke.

But first human misgivings about cheats and bold liars
were confirmed by my chip stack and their gold dust desires.
It started out friendly as the cards came around
and the chatter subsided as the wagers laid down.

It was Card with three aces and the Frenchman with four
that started the ruckus, accusations and more.
Then a blessed distraction of dance hall girl charm
kept the well-armed bartender from sounding alarm.

The Frenchman collected while Card bit his lip
and the lady departed with a drink and a tip.
“Let Charley sit in” squawked an anxious McCann
“Five’s a crowd” said the others poker faces in hand.

I grabbed the deck quickly calm invited, cards shuffled
crisply dealing them out, smoothing feathers just ruffled.
This time it was Card who raised up the bets
at each turn he went higher, it was he and I left.

What ya gonna do, bear? chided Card through his cigar
I’m staying I growled. Let’s see the last card.
I couldn’t believe it—Lady Luck’s hand of fate
with the nine of spades down I had pulled a small straight.

You’re cheatin screamed Card, when he saw all the spades.
I stared back at his pistol and death’s tight masquerade.
Now hold on a minute! checked McCann with a stare
This bear here is honest his spades fair and square.

And Card was placated though the loss was a jolt
and under the table he fingered his Colt.
Again cards were delivered and the bets were laid down
Plastic angels with wishes, nothing showin’ but frowns.

The pot’s right, and healthy, let the winner surmise
all the players were drooling at the sight of the prize.
I’ll raise ten said the Frenchman, and have no regrets
Hold your horses said Card, the pot’s not quite yours yet.

Card’s hand was one color, all diamonds in fact
The Frenchman held three queens, backed up by two jacks.
When the cards hit the table it was Card that first drew
his silver revolver provoking the coup

Then McCann pulled his rifle out from under his seat
and fired close range then made a retreat
The bullets dropped Card who had time to react
and his effort on target hit McCann in the back.

The Frenchman then gazed at Gehenna’s fine treasure
as a bullet tore through him, then one more for good measure.
It ain’t me that shot Frenchy, was the bartender’s finger
that pulled the slick trigger—no reason to linger.

The saloon crowd ducked down so the spittoons confide
while I grabbed up the money and made haste for outside
Swiping the pot was not much of a chore
the tin-horn bartender shaking, while he cleaned up the floor.

Three dead were the bounty, their souls with Old Scratch
and a black bear with money makes quite a nice catch.
I took every penny and bought drinks for my friends
who couldn’t believe I had come to such ends.

Now my fortunate windfall is down to one stack
Here’s hoping that devil don’t want his chips back.

June 9, 2016

– Melvin Toole