Solitaire

Such a stark tableau. Deal the piles. Omit the aces. Cardboard eyes looking up at the hands that arrange them. By sequence and suit. So strict are these definitions we create for our lives.

I turn the corner in my mania to encounter a hallway. With a door at its end. I peel the solitude from the eyes and look at the world again. People. So many people being human.

In their idling cars. As I take out the garbage. In their winter coats. As the wind emphasizes my lack thereof. Leaving the door open as I rush to dispose of the reufse. They swim in it. No sky above. No earth below. Just where they're going and with whom.

So many allegations. So little proof. That life is ours.

The half used tableau waits under my frown as I ponder where to move the next card. By suit. By increment. By some other construct. Of man or god.

Either way. This is a game of solitaire. The only way to win is to empty it.