Life is Bridge
The hand is dealt and partners too,
but alas people miss to call the trumps
and to stick to its power like glue.
When lacking, the only remainder - throat lumps.
Some call high and do not make it.
Others call low and rack up victory in the clouds.
There are teams who burn the rubber by faking it.
All these things are allowed.
So when the day comes when ability is questioned,
IQ interrogated and flaws are shown.
They are the ones who should fear this game.
For pleasant ace burns to ground
when the Trump is shown
and it astounds. A packet is
made and then another.
Take the little life and
draw it short. For on the other
side of cards over there-
eternal string and a winning smile.
Life is short.
Do or die.
My mother and father taught me bridge when I was about thirteen. I love the game so of course I decided to write poem about it. One of the critiques on both my poetry and prose is that it is somber. I like a mixed ending to a story. This, however is somewhat motivational.