Royal flush

God may not play dice, but he certainly has a good poker face. Thing is I don’t know if he is bluffing about his cards or about the game. Or maybe, as the puddles of coins shrink and overflow in uneven, unfair proportions, oozing and draining from the sewer grates that are the surrounding hands, he’s fibbing about fibbing. He doesn’t know how to play. Didn’t invent the rules. Doesn’t understand them either. He’s just going as he goes, hoping for the best, though he doesn’t know what the best is. Or the worst for that matter. Every hand is divined as a blessing. And so is the game, though certain rituals are confusing, and the players, though they sweat while sitting, and the plastic chips, though one cannot eat them. God tried to, went down like hell fire. Or like a royal flush, which God thinks is an euphemism for a crowning a public toilet with tissue paper before a poop. Better than the weird homage poker reserves for full house. It wasn’t even that great of a show. God could create better. But first, the game. What’s happening? What am I supposed to do? Dice would’ve been simpler. But there are those snake eyes and those unlucky threes and those lucky sixes and … I’ve lost. I didn’t know what I was doing.