Patricia Whiting Fine Arts

It’s come to this–
I cheat at cards.
Save the stragglers,
throw away the third queen,
pretend I can’t pick up
the discard pile
when I can–
leaving it for her,
my mother the matriarch,
the former card shark.

I used to wonder
if I loved her–
virtuous Virgo
with no music in her soul,
stoic never revealing
her innermost self–
but I don’t wonder anymore.
Only love could stay my hand
to let me lose at cards.