This Bogus Poetry

I close my eyes. The aroma of cheap hair gel and cigar smoke fills my nostrils. I feel my face being scrutinised. I hear the familiar click clack of poker chips, the drag of a cigarette and then the exhale. Did he just breathe his cigarette smoke on me on purpose? I pull the brim of my hat to cover my eyes further, try to remain still and control my breathing. My opponent is clearly frustrated and I know he is probably going to fold. I want him to fold. I try not to do anything, even to move. I don’t want to give him any ideas about making a hero call . Eventually, after a painfully long time, he folds. *** I had heard the poker games in Vienna were good, so had travelled to the Austrian capital to investigate. A nine hour train ride with Swedish backpackers later and I was in the suburbs of the Austrian capital. The Montesino Card Club is located in a very odd leisure complex, the centre piece of which is four large gas cylinders which have been decommissioned and converted for modern