Each suit’s a family. Are they happy?
Who knows? The queens won’t smile in photos
unlike the jacks and kings—heavens knows about
the aces, who left for greener pastures
like every other small-town kid, nothing
left behind. They moved to the Rider-Waite.
Lower unemployment there, better pay.
Fifty-two’s company, fifty-four’s a crowd—
let the jokers sneak out of the party.
If seven eight nine, who’s left to clean up?
Not the tens, they’re busy working the grill.
Gossiping auntie twos couldn’t care less.
Let the aces handle it with the jokers,
the runaway black sheep deal with the mess.