My Human Disguise.
“Never liked the ‘cards as fate’ metaphor,”
Thinks the painter, though that is what he paints.
He’d watched this game played out the night before.
Its drama of poverty, he thinks, taints
The composition’s careful symmetry.
The young father staking all on three threes
As the two sharpers wait for him to call.
His daughter’s afraid he could lose it all
And more, while the man watching, pipe smoking,
Knows the game is rigged — he’s in on the sting.
Twice the painter draws the golden section,
Vertically, on each side of the dupe,
But mars the composition’s perfection
By revealing the faces of the group.
