On spotting blue-haired ladies at Luckie’s gaming house,
I’m reminded that every summer those hungry harpies rupture plastic wrappers and caress spanking new Maverick decks with ambitious fingers; shuffle, gently divvy up the gambles’ potential, then slap the cards’ back- bones onto hardscrabble. Every lady is a can-do dame; each, a wrinkled cannibal who shows up with her wallet ready to run to well-practiced ruin. Their mottled hands fan lost time and no sooner have two Jacks just missed their spot, sulky twixt a ten of Hearts and Spade Queen, then the six of Clubs breaks down too. But for them— firebrands every one—poker & pinochle defeat the ennui and panic preceding every last call for the game of War.