An evening of Rummy

In a hand that looked like a winner when you picked it up

There are cards that already line up—‘pure sets’—

And cards that might and cards that surely won’t, 

Unless others decide likewise 

And you’re clever enough to take leavings.

Foraging what you can get

From what others don’t value, 

And, just sometimes, getting what you want

By wanting it harder,

Is the game. 

That is all fine as far as it goes,

But what happens when you’re 

Irrationally drawn to spades

—so sharp and dark—

And scathing of diamonds,

Or when you drop a card someone wants,

See them pounce on it, and grit your teeth

In moral quandary? 

(All the while trying to seduce 

The one across the table with

your skills and winning?)

Holding your cards in a tight fan

—too tight, not how the pros do it—

Trying to look as convincing as those who take it seriously

While knowing you don’t, you can’t, you can’t afford to.

The food dwindles and the clock pirouettes and 

You’re learning about the others—she’s surprisingly clever—

and everyone has a strategy, and they all seem unfamiliar;

It’s with relief that when someone proposes Snap,

We descend from our card-ramparts,

Squealing at the advent of—what a stroke of brilliance!—chips.

inflammable

'Could you turn it down?' he says,

Looking up from his book-

'I love you, but not that much.'

And grins, lopsidedly, that grin I adore—

Secretly, far too much.

What can I do? 

The knobs are dysfunctional, the 

Gradation markings erased over time;

Once turned on, you just have to

Keep checking I won’t burn you.

Perhaps that’s why I keep warming to those 

Whose hearts are marked Non-flammable.

competition

I ought to be typing. 

The others, in the silence of the quiet study section,

Are vociferously typing. 

Power, F says, is everywhere, its roots creeping

Unseen into our psyches, freezing us so immobile

That our shoots only wave in the gales;

And little clicks in the silence

Are the sounds of sap creaking, sighing.