Clubs Are Trump

By: David Tomasovitch

Aye, Yorick, I wish to rub
that sweet orange skull
between my palms,
crush into dust pale vestige
that hair-brain
bleached coxcomb over
alabaster sockets
where eyes are always shielded
from the sun.
You are to wit a witless error
holding court by verbal pratfall—
Oh, this joker’s wild!
Palmer’s sleight of hand
plunging an unwanted thumb,
fingers—fist into the pie—
plum position to shout,
“What a good boy am I!”