I’m reminded that every summer those hungry harpies
rupture plastic wrappers and caress spanking new
 
Maverick decks with ambitious fingers; shuffle, gently
divvy up the gambles’ potential, then slap the cards’ back- 
 
bones onto hardscrabble.  Every lady is a can-do dame;
each, a wrinkled cannibal who shows up with her wallet
 
ready to run to well-practiced ruin.  Their mottled hands
fan lost time and no sooner have two Jacks just missed
 
their spot, sulky twixt a ten of Hearts and Spade Queen,
then the six of Clubs breaks down too.  But for them—
 
firebrands every one—poker & pinochle defeat the ennui
and panic preceding every last call for the game of War.