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solitaire,
eight o’clock in the ballroom
next to
another engaging

illusion
that wanders
from a flickering candle:
processed
in the form of
chemical imbalance,

and
quadratic variables that
need no
integration,

my eyes see the x- and y-values

without desiring their
beauty.

from my calculations
i presume the woman’s (poker) face
to be perfectly symmetric;
a sure sign of good genes.

even so,
i know not the treachery of
rebellious sighs,
nervous glances,

cautious words that play to her fancy,

my breath on her soft neck
trying
to understand the meaning of this
LOVE,

none of these perils.

i only sit back
and ponder the painful truth

that

(as her polished fingernails
lightly scratch my chest,

sharpening themselves
against my heart,
a stone
without blood
or tissue to force love’s hand)

i am always
obliged to fold
even when i tenderly nurture
a royal flush.




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