Craps, Tim Suermondt

Craig Goodworth, Untitled (graphite), 2010




The Casino hadn’t been kind,

but we didn’t bring much to lose

and we didn’t lose much.

We followed couples across the wide,

elegant black dress of an avenue,

breaking away from them by the sailboats

and taking a narrow trail, lit up

by lamps and moonlight, down to the ocean.

From its edge we looked in England’s direction

before turning and waving to our friends

in America and calling out some of their names.

Ardently in love we somehow

made it back to our shoebox hotel room,

falling together on the bed, laughing at our fortune.

The world was perfect, the world was perfect.

Tim Suermondt


Review by Jared Pearce

Sometimes in poetry it’s easy to get stuffy and full of a poetic vision of the woeful world and poetry’s smug rightness in being cynical.  Well, that’s not always true, but it often seems to be how poetry considers life and living.  But not here—in this poem whimsy rules, a game of chance, and, what’s better, the speaker suffers a victory.  I adore the rightness of the concluding line’s repetition.


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