Same play of days

I’m thirty six,
and you, my friend,
you’re not just a joker.

The bench keeps the cards,
in stacks for the next play,
inbetween Knaves and elusive Aces
we try to keep our cool;
crisp white shirts will remain
ours, whatever.

I’m thirty six,
and you, my trusted ally,
you’re the rare hand
of a lasting friendship.


2 thoughts on “Same play of days

  1. nectarfizz says:

    You are a rare hand indeed. I am blessed to know this poetry. I particularly love this poem of the ones I see here today.

  2. Matt says:

    Thanks Bekki, just the thoughts that came to mind when I saw the Vettriano painting, the crisp white shirts, the cards and such. About the only thing I didn’t mention about the painting were the hats (looking back at it) which is odd considering every foreground head has a fedora on! Incidently, I was 36 when I wrote it also 🙂

    Strange how poems become little time capsules.

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