Cards

Cards

 

Dobson’s never one to speculate,

but always thinks he acts too late—

if he acts at all—at that which might appall.

 

He grows weary; it’s all too much,

seen it before too many times,

maybe doubts it’s even a crime.

 

Did you read about cankers, ears,

something rotting, lying in state,

or was it something lying in wait?

Too late.

 

Breathe and you’re dead.

Don’t say what you really think—

smile instead.

 

After all, they’ve sent many a soul packing.

They call themselves cards,

but something’s lacking—maybe hearts.

 

Enough spades to dig graves,

enough clubs to cudgel the brave,

foolhardy diamonds in the rough.

 

He knows how they dealt

the cards themselves,

built houses from stabbed backs,

marked the deck,

shuffled the pack.

 

Advancing one step up a pyramid,

built from cardboard edge to edge,

like ladders reaching

feathered crows’ nests—

trees swaying over toxic seas,

praying they don’t tumble.

 

Now Dobson knows

he shouldn’t grumble

at leaders who grope and blindly fumble,

 

hoping if they chuck enough mud,

some might stick before it crumbles.

Knows he must not tip his hand—

make a stand,

self-preservation.

 

So he shrugs.

In those poker faces,

he’s seen blood.