Poem -


There is a word - I think they call it 'finesse,'
my days of bridge taught me what was more or less,
how to make a sacrifice came from my chess,
we know that not everything gives you interest.

We know that survival becomes a delicate balance,
being able to know when to keep your distance;
I'll set you a trap: you say black and I'll say white,
the reverse psychology often is never quite right.

Rather, it's quite wrong but amazingly we get along,
we digress but end up singing the same song;
one day we'll be gone, then look back from Venus,
be incredulous, astonished - say: 'Was that really us?'

Yes, it was - wasted time, blew it all away,
when we could have been watching Wilder Deontay. 

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