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