Perhaps we are trying too hard to heal ourselves.
Why can’t we hold out our heads like we do our hands, let our minds reach out, caress all the fears into a deep slumber, tenderly wrap the injured plans and broken promises in bandages, a soft kiss on top and all better…
The poker game is over.
The dealer, cuts, holds the halves, taps the stray bottoms to the table, once twice, thrice, bends the unwilling, thumb inserted just so, releasing the tension on the halves, letting them feather together, layering a card from the left, from the right, from the left from the right into one, once again.
Your left is under me, over, me, piled on top of me.
I am searching for trump, watching for the bower, short one for a royal flush.
The dealer hasn’t been kind. There’s no Ace in the blind. The goddamn Joker has been laid. Again.
She prefers to play partners. She holds the cards. She calls the suit. She hates the game.