I thought I had ten fingers but I split them.
Somehow I still had five in each hand and I am at a poker
party playing like the king of hearts and queen
of my own realm, two hands to your one.
You are hoping to atone for yesterday’s mistake.
The dealer slurps at an oversize carton of cola.
The player to my left seems upset at the noise.
My legs begin to shake, off on their own private jaunt.
I understand all this to be too much spice.
Like a cardamon pod eaten whole.
Even with two hands of cards the idiom ‘cold feet’
crosses my mind. This is harder than Bingo, I say.
Robert Harper
Poem 3: #NaPoWriMo 2022
(Wordle, Quordle & Octordle results from 3rd April)