Pocket nines

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 
in the muck. That summer I blasted 
my equity and folded out all the draws. 
But for the uninitiated, my 3-bets 
were definitive, those poor souls 
that stumbled on a rock. That summer
I listened to the table—the 
happenstance of 9 lives converging—
the chirping hum of the game. 
The old man takes his time 
turning his hand over.  His eyes 
moving back and forth, from 
the two queens before me,
and the Q99 flop, looking back
at his hand, reluctantly, 
he flips over his pocket 9's. 

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.