The Game

The Game

Before they tell you how it’s your turn

to play a hand, and only after 

this investment are you light 

enough to understand the weight 

of what we’re playing for. Or, 

someone signed you up 

for the class, and not to audit, 

and while the committee

is ready to sympathize with your

surprise they’re just not authorized 

to waive the registration fees. 

Either way you see it, 

you’ll be hard-pressed to get out

of paying for this, and they’re sure

to squeeze out even the most 

reluctant drop. So stop: 

They see your next move. They see 

the one after that too, clever 

as you are in nosing the loophole 

dangled to snag such clever 

rascals as you. The only play

they can’t predict is when you slide

back your chair, forfeiting your turn

or refusing to answer the question

to give yourself time to grieve 

the long years wasted learning 

the rules, and then—your grief

having framed itself into a door

without a lock—without a knock,

bow through it, and quit.