Poetry · Writing

Solitaire

It was sunny Sunday afternoon

when that call came through-

pleading it was not you, it was me.

but it is me, hands are not tendered enough to peel back

all those layers, not just any ogre- but my heart is a swamp.

Playing pretend so it doesn’t exist, a couple of cards up your sleeves

so we’re never playing with a full deck

but the odds are always in your favor

never a full house but get this straight

you’ll flush me away royally.

 

I dream of the day

when the deck is full

and we play solitaire

side by side working to work back

all the layers of the sweet cake-

the one we baked together,

push back the hands reaching for the first slice

no no no we worked to hard for this delight

and with all our might will be the ones

to take that first bite.

you’ll trust me to feed it to you

and not rub your face in it

we can’t solve the worlds cube

if we keep burning the stickers

off our Rubix-

 

and we enjoyed that game,

no hidden aces, chips in our pockets

side bet with the man with the side burns that belongs in the eighties,

we took it on

by ourselves.

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