he sits
flipping cards
on the scarred
coffee table
between pots
of coffee
chain smoking
one cigarette
lit off of
the dying embers
of the last
a blue gray
filtration
obscuring
the horns
growing out
of his lined
red forehead

fifty two cards
in four uneven
columns with
four piles
steadily growing
on the side
boredom etched
in all black orbs
as the fires
blaze around him
a cacophonous
choral arraignment
of the damned
shreiking from
just outside
between the
salivating snarls
of demons
at play

there is nothing
quite as sad
as the devil
losing at solitaire
while an entire
plane of misery
howls in pain
reshuffling an
already stacked
deck of cards
looking for
a solitary win
in an existence
that only ever
deals out loss
alone in a hell
of his own
design