Workington Bridge Club

On Monday evenings numbers storm the air,
and shift the roots of my bid-addled brain,
until there is no safe ground anywhere
on Monday evenings.

Instead a pitying and wondering stare,
reserved for the near-terminally insane,
is shot my way – as contracts I declare

(three down) – to leave my partner in despair.
The great god ACOL has his way, that’s plain.
And all I know is – I don’t have a prayer
on Monday evenings.