[poem] The Scrabble Day Trippers, 06.18.04
You hate to lose at Scrabble; especially the
way it loosens your resistance to loving me.
The interlaying of words is almost sexual: a
double letter French kiss, a triple word orgasm.
In the meantime of turns, you romanticize
the future through the context of our ocean
view: photography on Prince Edward Island
in a shack by a lighthouse. I, on the other
hand, am sentimental for the occasions of
strolling the promenade on wispy October
mornings or of shore side meditations and
midnight make out sessions.
There’s a vulgar sense of indulgence as we
play on the restaurant patio. As if our apparent
sophistication is somehow inappropriate for
the beach scene. Our tightly buttoned sweaters
must seem eccentric among these scantly clad
hipsters. Even our sleek SLR cameras, loaded
with B&W film, defy the typical tourist profile.
Chewing knuckle hairs, I struggle with my
limited vernacular. And you are all vowels
clicking the pieces with rhythmic impatience.
Finally, in a triumphant uproar, I plunk down
my letters ceremoniously. You tongue your
cheek then slap your forehead, as Q-U-A-Z-A-R
defeats you.
The victory kiss is reluctant but sweet. The
rematch as certain as heartache.
