That summer I got very nitty, 
opening only 5.6% of hands
from all positions. ATs-AKs, 
88+, AKo, and KQs. I spent long
afternoons in windowless rooms, 
flicking cards at dealers, perfecting 
my aim. When the OMCs requested 
table changes and the regs started 
to straddle, I held the game d
in the muck. That summer I blasted 
my equity, released aces with ease,
folded out all the draws. 
But for the uninitiated, my 3-bets 
were transparent, those poor souls 
that stumbled on a rock. That summer,
I listened to the table—the 
lull of 9 lives converging.

The old man takes his time.
His eyes trace a path, 
from the hand revelead before him,
to my queens, to the Q99 flop. 
He traces it again.
Reluctantly, he flicks out a 9
And then the other. 

Who hasn't needed to cause 
some thing to suffer, to watch
some thing writhe in pain.
That summer, I didn't feel a thing.