Ultimate Game of Cards | Poem

   The wind in the willows
   whispers,
   waits not for this poet whose
   words are frozen,
   and yet as restless
   as the limbs which sway
   carelessly like
   youth which is
   lost,
   squandered in the ultimate
   game of cards.
   Aces and eights,
   the dead man's hand.
   We are all holding aces and eights
   and the wind in the willows
   cannot help us.
   I deal
   a joker here
   a queen there.
   I am a lonely duece who
   cannot sleep so I listen to the wind
   in vain waiting for the
   whisper.

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