End Game (Poetry)

‘The chips are down’ the Reaper said
and stifled a raw cough.
The dying man gazed from his bed
and guessed all bets were off.

‘Just one more chance — another hand ...’
he pleaded with a wheeze.
The hourglass stopped trickling sand —
the moment seemed to freeze.

The Reaper dealt from a fresh pack
while smiling a mean smile.
Approaching Doom began to crack
though Fate delayed a while ...

The dying man held in his fist
a royal flush — blood-red.
The scene took on a filmic twist —
The Reaper fell stone dead.

The music swelled. The credits rolled.
Supposed to be the truth
based on a tale a gambler told
and claimed he’s living proof.