to Richard
We start by laying out the tiles,
the deluxe set your mother bought
one Christmas long ago, the one
with off-white tiles, like teeth, matching
brackets to lay out the words, metal pegs
to tote up points. Best of all, a board
that we could spin to face us, each
in turn. We couldn’t wait to pick out
letters, ponder combinations, gnawing
on your mother’s peanut butter cookies
till the board stuck to the table and the
buttermilk was gone. The others hated
playing us. We always won. Now, it’s you
and me, the kid grown up and moved away.
Worthy partners and opponents, curators
of words, we challenge one another.
You lose a turn, then I do. I’m stuck
with the x; too many vowels. You find
a clever way to use the Q. There’s no one
here but us. It hardly matters that some
tiles are missing. We don’t mind the gaps,
forget for just a moment empty streets
and dire statistics. Let’s make it last.
We’re pondering the choices we still have.
Everyone we ever played stays in the game.
*This poem was a Finalist in the SWWIM For-the-Fun-of-It Contest.