Solitaire

At the bottom of the cylinder lies our way up and over
the over that organizes itself into gas money, tickets torn off new dresses
the zeal of dragons tearing your throat out
but you only notice the last few drops on the floor,
which needs again to be polished
big bright red footprint turning in upon itself
telling you exactly where you are,
because the dim dying flicker of electric light
put you there.
The metallic sun drilling smiles across your faces
convinced that you are important, scrubbing
sponging, re-wiring yourself to accept
again and again the faulty underpinnings-
A house of cards is still just badly drawn figures
a king, a queen on a shiny laminated frame
biding time at the bottom right corner of this pre-packaged
cylinder.  How it shines
how it reflects just what you told it to,
with your threats, delusions and insults.
That lacquered floor screaming up at you, begging you
to put it out of its misery:::
the blistering burns, the snake infested pond
waiting in the dullest darkness, its shadow your only hope.
Protecting you and offering up its terror so you stay just where
it wants you to be.  You and you and you,
in control of so much.  We are in control of nothing
except the way our arrow flies, or drives, or blackmails
or subscribes to words and ways and lives we conjure up.
The expert witches run out of town by the locals;
don't try to formulate their brew.  It's not for amateurs,
like you.  Polish, grind, chatter away the silence of seconds-
that's all we're good for. Giving up before we start
is the greatest card trick that deck of ugly royals
ever dreamed up.  Papercuts down our backs, ruled
over by the absolute longitudes of our fears.
Circle back again, I think you missed a spot.

M. Lucia