Behind thick ruby curtains of the mind
Four hundred patrons forty thousand cents
Proscenium spectacle: I call that hearts
Palace of mirrors with five fistfuls of smoke

My fifteen extra fingers can’t be seen
Ice cubes lost and found in quickflash silver
Buried to the wrists in permutation
The wrinkles of my palms are covered up

Carpeted with knaves and jewels and jests
Whisper your secrets to the king of spades
Diamonds nail spun dizzy: I call that ace
Shuffle walls so seats are on the ceiling

Brightedged paper blurred in spotlit flourish
Rows of pips like doors on cloudpalmed jets
You know what I call that stuff: finger flicking
Puddles of money in sidewalk planted hats

Queen’s ten clover clock with month hand ticking:
I call that finger flicking.

Stop moving.

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-- c. 2021