Every Friday night my father
and his friends gathered
at a different house to play poker—
the pots building up fast, dollar bills
forming a centerpiece on the table.

In those days, everybody smoked,
ashtrays full next to sweating
cans of Ballantine beer, 
and in the summer, a low murmur 
from the radio and Mel Allen’s voice 
calling balls and strikes, hits 
and outs at the Yankee games.

The wives gathered in the kitchen
around a black and white TV,
and when our turn came, 
I sat in an armchair next to the front door
keeping an eye on the poker players:
bankers and teachers, my dad,
and the priest from St. Mary’s Church.

Our next-door neighbors 
always the last to arrive—
the husband clutching his anger
locked inside a coffee can of change—
his wife wearing her sadness
like the long-sleeved shirts
covering her bruises—
my mother’s silent glare 
like a gambler’s last stand.