HOW SHE DESCRIBED HER EX-HUSBAND WHEN THE POLICE CALLED
He’s the man who wants to live on Park Place
but can only afford Virginia, the Pennsylvania line
running through his backyard, fast as a chance.
He’s the hat who owes a luxury tax.
He’s a no-trump bid without all the aces. A queen finesse,
eight ever, nine never, that fails to fall
into the dummy just right.
He’s down a trick.
Just call him Colonel Mustard, pinning Miss Scarlett
against the conservatory wall but rubbing noses (literally)
with Mrs. Peacock, endowed by her old money.
He needs cash and carries a lead pipe.
Slow to ante up, he’s jackpot dreams, quad or flush
scraping the felt for another card
odds turning on the river.
He’s a bluff on junk.
He’s the joker pinned in bicycle spokes
vanishing down the street.
—from Rattle #29, Summer 2008
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Martha Clarkson: “My bid: five hearts. My deduction: Professor Plum in the library with the rope. My property: Baltic (why think too big?).” (web)
