The Card Players
poem
The Card Players
Their faces are frozen in the lobby of a dentist’s office,
frostbitten like the duck I left in my freezer for two years,
which I eventually threw away, leaving it to rot within
the walls of its own plastic bag.
No one wears those hats anymore
—feathers plucked from a ruffed grouse,
fishnet draped over faces, a capsized boat on each of their heads.
The wooden panels behind them sweat.
A man with a sea cucumber on his head points
to a pile of coins. Tax collector, money changer,
housewife, and candlestick maker. None of them smile.
None of them notice the green hills outside.
Whew. So evocative.
Life was boring before the Internet.