Let It Ride Out Poem by James McLain

let it ride out, fast learner, the game's people play, loose women, fast men

the bar lights low,
smoke thick like whispers in the air,
everyone's got their hand out,
everyone's got a game they play.

she's on her third gin, he's two seats down,
slick with a grin that knows its way around,
they eye each other like wolves,
in the haze of half-lit lives,
waiting for that opening,
that slight stumble,
a crack in the armo
Let It Ride Out

Let it ride out,
the way the street takes you,
the way a bottle empties,
the way the smoke fills the room,
it's all the same lesson,
one you learn fast
if you know how to listen.

The game's on,
people leaning over cards
like they're praying,
hands full of what they think
they've won—
they're just as empty
as the next shot poured.

Loose women, fast men,
slick talkers,
the cards and the lies
run like blood,
and they all think they know
the angle,
but the house always knows.