Gambling

To make a choice or take a chance,
there is little difference it seems.
Though I claim not to be a gambler,
that being an addiction I missed,
It's true I bet my life, my future, my dreams
on every choice I make.
For no matter how carefully I research,
how many lists I make,
or charts and graphs;
No matter how very certain I may feel
when I at last place the chip of my life on a particular square
- blue chips, red, I've never understood the difference -
or spin the wheel, or call for a hit of fate
on the few sparse cards I hold,
No matter any of that.
The dealer is always someone other than me.
The house has all the percentages.
And I? I have only choices to make,
and always with insufficient information.
That last piece of fact, the detail I cannot know,
how often it has played spoiler to my plans.
The result, the reaction to my chosen action,
that is the missing piece, the part I cannot know.
When I choose "X",
being certain that only "Y"
can result from my well-chosen pick,
When I choose "X" how often "U" results
or even "Q".
And I am left to wonder.
Where did that come from?
(Immediately my mind answers that I must not, ever,
end a sentence in a preposition.)
And there I am, again,
Facing the law of unintended consequences.
Wondering how two plus two this time equals twelve
or green or even square,
since often the answers seem not even to fall
within the realm of what I saw as possibility.
But, know this:
How often "U" or even "Q"
is so much better than my chosen "Y".
How often the house,
the dealer has made a better choice than I.
And I am left, again, to crumple the silly list,
toss out the charts and graphs, and laugh at my own ridiculous self.
Who did I think I was?
Why would I ever dream I could foretell the proper choice?
Will I ever know, really know,
or trust that all Life's answers are so much better than mine?
That each time I feel so driven to make a list,
create a chart, place points upon some silly graph,
Life is off-stage, laughing.
And yet, those lists and charts and graphs are my effort,
my work, my part of this Life,
at least at times.
Perhaps my list-making, chart-drawing, graph-pointing efforts
move me in a direction, or if not that,
at least keep me out of the way,
occupied somehow in a manner that I cannot be an obstacle
while Life goes about Her dealing
and Creation plays House,
dropping finally the ball in the slot,
or turning the last card face up,
While I am left to gasp in wonder,
seeing a jackpot so beyond my dream
that I could not have placed it as the final point on my little graph,
or the largest pie slice of my chart.
And Life again has dealt.
And I, with my incomplete information,
My carefully chosen choice,
Have won again.
Despite myself.