Big Game Poem by Richmal Byrne

Your dumb knave
Lying on the stack,
A pod card
Dulling dispensation,
The pack lies beneath,
Fortuitous,
Random;
Sometime sour shuffled solitaire,
Spells out unreadable upshot,
A word-formed salvo
Ricochets them into ranks,
Cobbling crocks four and
I am each suit.
The sniper cards dispense
Sluggish shells shot over shambolic skirmishs,
Attempts to reload,
I am each shot.
My cards fall down
Scattering meaningless phrases.
I am alluvium
Dealt in a delta of empty echoes.