His Final Hand Met Fate's Demand

by Ken Gosse

Since Tarot cards tell what must be—

they’re que será, not fancy free—

my aces-over-eights quandary

foretold someone was watching me.

I didn’t bet my life on them

and had no time to haw or hem.

The villain, anxious to condemn,

ignored my aphoristic gem.

Afraid those words might be my last,

perhaps I spoke a bit too fast.

The dealer, knowing, thought I sassed

when I said, “Think I’ll fold,” then passed.

Indeed, I passed (not just a swoon)

upon that August afternoon

as Jack McCall would sing his tune

of retribution importune.

Meanwhile, the cards would lie there still

and prove their power beyond my will

to live and play and have my fill—

the final hand for old Wild Bill.