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.