The House Of Cards
He’s eleven, maybe twelve,
on the cusp. Hair tied with a bow
that matches his cravat, clean linen,
cheeks rosy, eyes downcast.
Delicate as a Watteau.
a half-circle of cards
on the table top, holds
the others in his hand, except
for the King of Hearts
which he doesn’t see
hiding in the drawer below.
Carefully, he places the last card
in line. It will stand or it will fall
taking with it the rest of the cards,
bow, jacket, cravat, linen,
rosy cheeks, innocence and all.
Ruth Bavetta is a poet and artist whose poems have appeared in Rattle, Nimrod, American Poetry Review, Tar River Review, North American Review and many other journals and anthologies. Her books are Fugitive Pigments and Flour, Water, Salt (Futurecycle Press), Embers on the Stairs (Moon Tide Press), and No Longer at This Address (Aldrich Press). She has been a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee.
The Ekphrastic Review
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