Dogs Playing Cards

Poem By Werner Schmidt

Saturday.
A red lamp shade sheds mozzarella Light.
Some sit cross-legged on the floor.
One is half-lying around a low square table's
green felted top.
The table made by the father of the One.
A grandfather clock tick tocks twelve past two
next to fishing boats painted on sea.

[We observe from outside hearing distance.]

One by One their faces appear under the smoky Light
before receding into semi-Darkness.

Oscillation.

One is wearing a Dark blue shirt.
Hat like a black rice wine bottle top.
He sits back, studying his hand of cards with
slitty jet eyes. Long, grey ponytail.
Thin goatee, curling to his left shoulder.

A second One crouches over cards in an off-white, soiled T-shirt.
Cracked leather sandals, unbound Dark brown hair
olive brown skin, round eyes and chocolate beard.
A twig of incense from a long, long time ago
meditates in an ashtray, next to his
calloused right hand.

A third One bears a bushy silver beard.
Eagle eyes, Dark and grey under thick black brows.
Relentless look.
His pipe smoke travels arabesquely to the Light -
lazy spiral like a moth's predestined final flight.
Light green cape embraces his red brown tunic.
White head band around a phallic yellow cone.

[We zoom closer like respectful voyeurs & poetic paparazzi.]

"Go fish, " says the well tanned leather sandaled One, the table maker's son.

"Yes, with a straight hook, " smirks the Dark blue shirt
rearranging his cards.

"Brethren! Journey to endless oceans, your true home, for the catch, "
says the silver beard, absent-mindedly fanning his face with cards.

"Dawgs, this is a One day game, " twangs the loose yellow T-shirt with
cargo pants and camo cap.

Momentary silence as the grandfather clock tick tocks
fishing boats away on their painted ocean.

[We zoom out again.]

Exchanging glances, One by One they start giggling, snorting
closing eyes, shaking, and then
every One bursts out laughing.

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