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 Bedside and Card Table

His teeth slept in a glass
on his bedside table
with his spectacles.

One Sunday morning on a tray
I took him tea and toast,
leaned over him smiling.

Your breath is like a polecat's,
he observed - an animal
never mentioned before.

I shut my mouth and kept it shut.
Never again would I breathe on him.
That was his last breakfast in bed.

We might meet over the width 
of the card table - we'd keep score
of our gin rummy evenings

till he'd outstripped me so far
I needed baling out.
At least it wasn't for money.

When his friends came for poker
it was serious play, the room
full of smoke and tension.

Next day he'd sleep in - his head
heavy. His breath - I avoided.
The room stank. I'd never smoke.