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“I make a lot of money,” he said, 
to no one in particular,
which was a lie. He’d gambled it away
at blackjack in Vegas, where the dark bar
had as many ugly girls as cute plump chicks,
which was fine with him. He was after their
money, not their virginity. The bar 
had a name. What was it? That’s right.
The Ace of Clubs. His lucky card.
He wanted someone whose name he might find 
on a plaque in a manicurist’s salon: Destiny, 
Divina, Celeste. He’d know her face
sure as he knew when to hit and when to stay. 
That was the way it was supposed to happen.
He would walk into her dream the way
Steve McQueen walked into a poker game. 
It excited her. His blonde looks, his cute butt.
And then the talk turned to money.
“Charity,” he’d say, “What’s a million dollar
babe like you doing in a dump like this?” 
It wasn’t original but neither was she. 
She’d wriggle and tell him how she wanted 
to be a dolphin trainer or a product tester at Revlon, 
then she’d blot her lips and toss off
the trust fund, the Mercedes, the polo pony’s
gold-plated shoes glinting fine as luck. 
What a horny man will do for a fuck.
 
—Ed. note: D.N. Redfern is the nom de plume of an American poet who divides her time between Miami and New York. Under her proper name she has written a novel of intrigue involving gambling and the cocaine trade. She picked the drawing that accompanies this post. D. N. Redfern sometimes identifies herself as Diane Redfern. She pronounces her first name “dee en.”

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