The Game

A room shrouded in a thick curtain of smoke Conceals a blue man, a red man, and a purple man as they sit in the round at a modern table And flick cards between their fingers in a stalemate. The moment is pregnant with anticipation, The steady flaking of cigar ash burning little stars into the cheap dark velvet table-top. There the petrified sit, Abled only through the gnashing of their teeth against the bitterness. The pursuit is at a impasse, and the treaties of man momentarily hold face. These are the trenches. Here lie the stalwart and the un-blossomed; Brimming as they teeter on the edge and all at once are stilled by the threat of spilling over.