The Poker Player

She was just a woman. Hardly made of rock.
Wife, mother career woman – made of ordinary stock
But, somehow she was different – true players always are –
She took the beats of the felt, she prided on the scars

She swore she would win, no matter what the cost.
So many times she endeavored forth; so many times she lost.
And when they said, “It’s OK, you tried”,
She shook the hands of the winners and by herself she cried.

But from her tears came courage, that never ceased to spin,
She rose again, determined that the next time, she would win.
Her game steadily strengthened; her heart soared toward the sky,
Her determination toughened. She had fire in her eyes.

And so she practiced relentlessly; she struggled and she played,
Her conscience beat her painfully for every mistake she made.
She practiced online, she practiced live, and then she practiced more.
She’d tell herself, “I have to”, and then ask herself, “What for?”

It suddenly was ended. The silence seemed to shatter.
A crowd was cheering in the distance, but to her, it didn’t matter.
There was one thing she was thinking – a thought that made her smile;
She had given all he had, and that’s what made it worthwhile.

She stood and faced her sisters, with pride instead of shame.
She knew not that she’d won the final hand, but that she’d played the game.
And some call her a poker player, and some call her a woman,
But she called herself a winner…
As the bracelet touched her hand.

Amy Zupko