You are robin-breasted – the outstretched wing of a full house
beats my flush. Victory sits on your cheeks like a fat baby.
I shuffle the cards and deal, uninterested in the game
or the anecdote of your last date –
she had a nose like a macaw, no, a fucking flamingo
but that’s the problem with swiping right when you’re drunk
and I’m a gentleman so I thought I’d follow through, y’know
she was an alright girl, but not a feather on you.
I go all in on seven high to end the game.
I notice the bars on your apartment window for the first time –
how the wind opens its throat, how I recognise the song.
You move closer. I have to congratulate you on your effort,
well done! Most birds don’t get a complex game like poker.
One more thing…
You tell me I am beautiful even in defeat.