I played rummy with his grandpa.

The houseboat still in the evening water
as twilight peeked over Mount Shasta.

Cross-legged on the bench
across from a giant of a man.

He looked at me like he’d eat me alive
and I stared back, knowing
luck had always been on my side.

I won the first round
and he said again.

I won the second round
and he told me once more.

I won the third round
and went to leave the table
to get ready for bed.

Stop, he said,
and I was forced into a fourth sitting,
exhausted.

He won,
and all the previous games were forgotten.

That was when I realized
I’d been conned into playing
until he could feel less shaken
by my hand at luck.

As it turns out, plenty of people act that way in life.

I learned from him not to get suckered
into meaningless rounds
over pride.