On days of uncertainty
(those not touched
by the names of my childhood saints)
I count my poems
to see if they make up a volume
a very slim one
I always conclude
and feel sad
But the other day
on an unpredictably cold Vancouver evening
I saw a sign
outside a small Chinese grocery:
``all flowers inside''
By now, perhaps,
only the old guy down the street
and I play solitaire with real cards
(everyone else I know uses the computer)
his deck looks ancient
glued together with grief
the times I pass his ground floor window
he entertains his invisible guest
dealing with the endless game
on a tiny kitchen table
I wish I could stop
and offer my own deck
also old, but small
(for the nineteenth century addict on-the-move)
showing off Rococo aristocracy
the young queens decadently decolletaged
the manly kings their wigs askew just so
the gallant jacks positively gay
even the number seem to smile
would he appreciate our invasion?
maybe not
because for solitaire
(and that's where all my computer friends cheat)
you need a real partner
loneliness.