Poem for the Singer

Like cards from a trick deck,
you deal yourself out to me
in measured, calculated hands.
As if gambling was too rich for you.
As if slight of hand was your trade.

Tossing away all these
un-nervy feelings, these,
what do you call them, low-Richter stuff,
like a boring receipt, or a toothpaste cap,
would be a silly, silly thing, I know.

So, I keep them,
wadded like a gum wrapper,
or filed like last year's daybook.
Things you are sure will come in handy
in the very near future.