Last match . . . you knew you’d get there;
always do. Last hat shimmering the Sonora
sun, you and that turquoise skink you resemble.
Any costume party you’ll be noticed;
nothing hides your 12 point rack,
moss dangling, thorny, but appointed
to supreme courts despite the warnings.
Too bad the last match
won’t save us from the bloody
wars that lie ahead.
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