The Rotten Trick (Poetry)

I can’t get used to death —
this sudden change in love’s close-fitting play
the rotten trick so flagrant how it’s done
life’s sleight of hand drops one card from the deck
the survivors marked as jokers —
                                red-raw hearts — black spades
to dig each other’s too-untimely graves.

All purpose hid —
what point in all this dealer-absent game?
all toil’s redundant —
                                things go on the same
with or without us
                                however we protest —
rage against the storm’s cruel punishment
calm follows...

And in that hush we draw an unsure breath
and count the cards — whatever time remains
to somehow piece together what is left.

I suspect few of us ever can
get used to death.