waiting for the rolling die.

I haven’t moved an inch.
and in this silence, I cannot flinch.
you watch with a quiet eye,
waiting for the rolling die.
the numbers flip, and now we’re through.
the game’s been lost, I was betting on you.
and among the letters, figures, maps.
I look to see, we’re typing in dull caps.
and while I watch the nighttime creep,
I find it’s hard to picture things sleep.
when mothers told and taught to lie,
what is it their children thought to buy?
a glass of wine, a glass of water.
mother’s boy learned to slaughter.