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by Terri Taylor Weiner
by Rick Chamberlin
by Tonya Ward Singer
by Rafaella Del Bourgo
by Rochelle Ratner
by Jessy Randall
by Theresa McCourt
by Maureen Tolman Flannery
by Sally Goade
by Sally Goade
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Hard Scrabble
by Rick Chamberlin
I savored the compound irony as you
Compounded your score:
seventy-four points for "breeze,"
triple letter, double word score.
You had been behind and wanted to quit.
Afterward I almost told you again,
"See, It's not what you get,
it's what you do with it that counts."
What stopped me was my worry
that you might not want to play again
and, perhaps, my own hypocrisy.
How often have I looked at my own letters
without seeing even half of their potential?
If someday you should find yourself
the father of a son, do not think for a second
that it is only games you play with him.
These are hard scrabbles
like, when I'm not too tired, too sore, or brooding,
we wrestle.
Me, at forty, growing soft and slow
and you, at eleven, becoming strong and quick,
tumbling together in a rough embrace,
healing even as we hurt.
Just like me with my father and he with his,
like Jacob with God,
unwilling to let go
until blessed.
Rick Chamberlin is a father, husband, essayist, and poet living in Wisconsin. His work has appeared in The Wisconsin Academy Review, Madison's Capital Times newspaper, and on FightingBob.com.
