The Jack of Spades

The Jack of Spades

Beneath the cut where silence trades,
He plies the edge of steel and grades.
No hourly wage, no boss to bind—
He bills the earth and leaves no time.

Nine-nine, ninety-nine,
A whisper wrapped in crooked line.
Not crown, nor cuff, nor deal unmade—
He names his price with fuel and blade.

Six-six, sixty-six,
Where numbers roll and ledgers fix.
The hours long, the take is wide—
He digs the depth they’d try to hide.

The contract bends, the margin sways,
Yet through the dust, he carves his pay.
Not just a Jack, not just a trade—
The Jack of Spades.
The game he played.

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