Strip Poker

Each word bares more skin until

 you sit at the table naked,

wondering drunkenly what

happened to all the aces.

There were four of them.

At least one should have made it

to your hand. Instead, you rake

your ink-stained fingers through

already tousled hair and curse

          the media for giving you a stupid audience.

          the critics for bludgeoning you

          the dollar for avoiding you.

          and the muse for abandoning you.

Copyright © 2011 Amanda Jean Partridge

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