It’s all in the wrist, with a deck or a cue,
And Frankie Machine had the touch.
He had the touch, and a golden arm—
“Hold up, Arm,” he would plead,
Kissing his rosary once for help
With the faders sweating it out and—
Zing !—there it was—Little Joe or Eighter from Decatur
Double-trey the hard way, Dice be Nice,
When you get a hunch bet a bunch
It don’t mean a thing if it don’t cross that string
Make me five to keep me alive
Tell ’em where you got it ’n how easy it was—
We remember Frankie Machine
And the arm that always held up.
We remember in the morning light
When the cards are boxed and the long cues racked
Straight up and down like all-night hours
With the hot rush-hours past.
For it’s all in the wrist with a deck or a cue
And if he crapped out when we thought he was due
It must have been that the dice were rolled,
For he had the touch and his arm was gold.
Rack up his cue, leave the steerer his hat:
The arm that held up has failed at last.
Yet why does the light down the dealer’s slot
Sift soft as light in a troubled dream?
(A dream, they say, of a golden arm
That belonged to the dealer we called Machine.)