The ace was high
and was changing his suit
as we flew over Azerbajan.
I was a beginner, a lucky man,
all my jacks were red,
but I’d always played a different game
in my introspective wishywashy head.
Who’s winning? The losers would stroll
and ask in the afternoon light
somewhere over Erzurum…or Ararat
on this undersubscribed flight.
You see, there needed to be a winner,
damage needed to be done,
it was an exercise in hurting others
healthy some might say
by releasing base instincts
in a harmless, social way,
but each player had three lives:
by the time we’d passed Kabul
and The Punjab winked up at us
through the inky heat
the game was tedious
those destined for defeat
still dreamed of comebacks
laps of honour
but I was so hopelessly ahead
I wanted to die soon
and go back to my seat