Double or Nothing

Shot glasses dished out,
filled half way with cloudy
cracks of ice,
topped, left quarter empty
by the holder's choice.
Deep brown liquids or
clear.

Tastes like blood.

First hand dealt by
small man in the corner.
He's got a wince
that wails down his spine
and itchy ballpoint eyes.
Bets laid to rest
on stage. Man
with chestnut hat
and checkered tie
makes a bluff, only
Corporal Pearson, 42,
on the line.

Loose change falls
from journalists hand and
stirs enough to have an
appology from suited
fellow - he'll sit this
one out.