The deck of cards you are holding
has no order; each suit is a suit of
the mad. Blue tablecloth and
green-glass cups. The she-wolf
will come around with a tray -
canapes and drinks, some new
finger-food to help defray the
costs of such a time. We are leery
of lingering, yet we stay too long.
The obstacle before us is a steeplechase
of song; the museum mysteries brew,
and the Gay Men's Chorus comes on
once more while they are changing
the exhibits across the floor. I have
a malady of oneness, like a toothache
that won't go away. 'Sound of heart,'
my card read, 'but weak, nonetheless,
in the head.'