Richard Fein

Yes Einstein, He does play dice.
The universe is a craps table,
but no six sided casino cubes are thrown---
the odds are weighted even more with the house.
Dice give a spread of only 2 to 36.
Much stiffer odds at this hotel.
The house alone makes the roll.
Our ruined bones are cast as runes
by the highest roller,
the one who's earned the penthouse suite;
the shooter is the Supreme Shaman.
Any pattern can fall into place.
Our bones may touch or not,
or point every which way.
Our existence---a distribution on a green felt table.
Our fate--- passive.
Will He declare the symmetry of our fallen bones pleasing?
Then the game ends with our world the eternal pattern.
Or will He find the aesthetic askew 
and scoop up our misplaced bones,
casting  again with new runes?
Eons between each play.
Our bones have newly settled, the toss just made,
the chips irrevocably wagered.
We await the call.
Is the pattern proper?
Above us the bright casino lights are eternally on.
And like most hotels of chance
there are no clocks on the walls. 

I'll need this rainy morning remembrance
of my  taking him to school:
he jumping in and out of puddles
ignoring my halfhearted scolding,
a warm, gentle rain falling on all the muted street hues,
his yellow raincoat a bright beacon on this gray day,
his last furtive kiss out of sight from his classmates,
the long line of drizzled-on munchkins,
his last look at me, his final wave.
His final wave.
Iron doors slam shut.

Now pointless, even suspicious, to remain.
But comes the certain dark times,
I'll draw on this memory.