It is a card castle
full of aces, deuces,
my life.
It never ceases
to need more rooms,
more promenades,
fences to close in fences.
And so I am constructed.
Put together.
So fragile
a puff of breath,
a hand shaken by weariness,
the touch of a child’s finger,
and the edifice would fall.
Everything banished by mortality.
A game, whose rule
is not to be denied its air
for more than mere seconds,
or decades of love and caring
would be writ plain,
without a trace
of what stood
where the cards are standing.