The would-be King is angry,
adamant that his silk suit trumps
all the other suits and pantsuits
vying for the throne.
His head is in his ace hole.
He thinks all the Queens are airheads,
gropes them as if they are ******
to be replaced when one gets old
and a prettier one comes along.
He shuffles his Jacks,
mere minions, all interchangeable,
discards them, sluffs them off.
His would-be subjects
are treated like deuces and tres;
the cards that do the hard work
of making a winning hand,
mostly with spades,
are clubbed into submission.
Though he values diamonds,
his deck contains no hearts,
they bleed too liberally for his ilk.
With his hair pulled over his eyes
like a dealer’s shade,
he deals from a stacked deck,
under the table, cards hidden up his sleeve.
He can’t see himself for what he is,
the fifty-third card in the deck,
the joker.