Poem with Extradition, Ace of Swords, and Five of Coins

Fortune can be a fickle lover, 
can be a beggar standing outside 
the gate in blood-stained rags, 

waiting to turn the tables on you. 
It can be a miser who keeps an eye, 
two feet, two hands on his hoard 

of coins because he thinks the world 
is only out to impoverish him. The sun 
shines on his back and on the bustling 

city, but he won't be allowed to buy a stick 
of cotton candy on the beach or a golden 
bullet for the gun in his secret pocket. 

Fortune this week is the despot shuffled
off a plane and into a cell, there to await 
trial; while in the hallway, his wife 

pleads for mercy. Fortune pulls a sword 
out of a gleaming cloud as if to smite 
the mountains and part the sea and all

else in its path. Every blade has two edges,
every sky a moon and sun. Fortune slaps  
one cheek then asks you to turn the other— 

a game it never seems to tire of. Fortune says
this is one way to rid yourself of illusion, 
and prepare for the breakthrough just ahead.