Mother of Pearl.
Drowning in the details, itchy eyes.
There is no sunken treasure.
All a pirate plunders
is at risk of being robbed
between the devil
and the deep blue sea.
“For what? To compete
incapable of thinking
consecutively for sixty seconds?”
Call. Check. Or. Fold.
Of course, call. Pursuing answers
at depths too deep, forcing your hand
to bottomlessness, asking for sympathy
from the unsympathetic, betting on brilliance
aboard a sinking ship, and demanding legacy
within a one-round world. Mother of pearl, fold.