The board
laid across an old table
which echoes a language
you and I no longer speak.
We will never locate such words
in the Oxford to temper
the stale atmosphere.
Still, we thrash out our differences
with a game of scrabble.
You swear.
I savour the blank
even though our facial expressions
tell the same, worn story
over and over again
amidst the etchings
in the wooden table
of a bygone family life.
Why am I not surprised
by the ending?
The distance,
grown tired of letters
and meanings
just like the thinly disguised scores
shaped by sarcastic wit
and a cursory kiss,
grows by inches,
tile by tile.
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Originally Posted by Jerrybaldy
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