I live inside a deck of cards.
When I first came here
there was order, my life made sense.
Numbers were sequential,
shapes displayed easy patterns.
But after years of shuffling and dealing
predictability is out of whack.
All events are random, except
for dirty faces and scuffed backs.
I'd tell you more
but I'm about to be squished by a four of clubs.
Jason Daniel Smith
If you've any comments on
this poem, Jason Daniel Smith would be pleased to hear from you.