Just one game, she says.
She is the orange car and a doctor.
I am the pink car and a journalist.
You’ve already lost,
my son informs me from the sidelines.
I spin. It’s payday.
She spins. It’s time to get married.
Her spouse keeps falling out of the car.
We park him in a blue car by the bank,
which is just a box lid, worn and taped at the corners, 
directions imprinted under piles of money.
I never was good with money or directions.
I want you to win, my daughter tells me.
I want you to win, I tell her.
She’s got a great sense of direction
and a lot of money tucked in a jar by her bed.

What I lost: chances,
blue cash, realty, stock options, 
parking places, certainty, lucky days.

I am losing.
She is flush with white, blue, green paper.
But I want you to win, she tells me.
Just watch, I say.
I drive my car to the betting line
only to spin a dud number.
We all knew you’d lose, whispers the spouse
as he drives off to Park Place in some other game. 
Retire, read the directions.
Move to the country, become a philosopher.
See? I say.
Losing isn’t so bad.