photo credit: https://ppfotografie.deviantart.com/art/The-game-of-love-343803091
Tuesday Morning
On Tuesday morning I wait for his call
and wait for the game to begin again
with his tender voice, his velvety charm,
fattening the pot, raising the stakes.
I wait with my heart shuffling
like a thousand decks of cards
for the way he’ll say my name,
dealing every syllable as if it were an ace.
On Tuesday morning I answer his call
with my best poker face,
though my anxious hands
and trembling voice
fight to tell my bluff,
my tongue faithfully conceals my hand
from fear that he will fold, forfeit our game,
place his chips on another bet,
on another table, with another dealer,
from fear that my vulnerability
might eat me alive
and reveal all the cards.
So today I must play the part
of the stoic queen of hearts
who knows she must stop me
from crawling across the worn, felt-top table,
revealing the imperfection
of my spade-tainted red flush,
stop me from flipping over the one-eyed jack
to see his other side,
only to find the same checkered pattern
I’d been staring at all along.
On Tuesday morning when he does not call,
when the silence of my phone betrays me,
when I’m forced into a lonely game of solitaire,
with kings and queens that mock me,
prod me into thinking
that all my love was self-contrived,
when I must pretend that it is just a game,
jacks or better to open, trips to win,
and I have a garbage hand,
I’m gambling in a black chip game.
