Nostalgic Whist

Exhilaration flares in his own anticipation,
Unaware that I have completed a thorough investigation,
Located the weakness, identified my trump card,
And am eager to play.

Enthusiasm for the game’s degradation,
Unwittingly suspecting my abject failure, poor stakes indeed,
Nostalgia, his only childhood friend and confident,
Succulent in his ignorance.

My hand is played, the aces polished and laid,
Only friend, aside from our strange dalliance, only friend.
Lost in time to sentimental memories, but still treasured,
Chris’s chips are down.

Driver by trade, effortless to entrap in the merciless snare,
Summoned by a phone call, self-employed, others unaware.
Innocent by no means, a secret penchant for the bottle,
Accidents in the rear-view mirror.

I hand my beloved enemy the number,
‘The punishment must fit the crime,’ I remind,
‘In the wine cellar below you will find a wine press,
This must be the tool of his demise.’
I quell my urge to laugh, sweet is my revenge!
Surely Dyer-Bolique has not been so thorough,
Surely my aces have trumped his hand.