Bridge
In my dreams I am always trying to get to the dummy -
its ledge of superior attack, its long chest of treasure,
the diamonds like stubby daggers, the clubs and the spades
blunt and black maces poised to crush a trick,
and the hearts, those bifurcated, lethal rubies.
Yet something holds me back, some truth about numbers
inflexible and invisible, while losers pour
out from my hand, one after another,
to meet the derision of our enemies’ trump
and their face cards—the supercilious queen
with her slim arched eyebrow, and the simpleton king,
his armless hand like a baby’s on his sword.
Dears, there are gears in the logic of combat,
and they grind away while we age and chat.
