The Vegas lights are glaring at one a.m.
and I can still see my bulky first father
standing at the craps table
whispering softly to the dice,
Come on, baby, come home to Daddy.
He is surrounded by strangers who are
shouting out numbers, laying down bets,
and he is massively alone, like God
playing dice with the universe
on a felt table in a fake city.
My sister and I watch him from the crowd.
Our father wants a seven coming out.
He wants to roll dice until he can't win
anymore, and then he needs to lose.
But everyone likes him for that seven.
I was two years old when I last saw him
blowing on the dice in our kitchen.
These are the true numbers, he said,
cupping them in his palms,
and then he tossed them on the table.