Game

I grew up playing Scrabble
Hunting for the right word
To fit within the grid.

Other board games too-
All sorts.

Life
was governed by rectangular cards;

Monopoly
existed in a static market;

Clue
was merely method
never hunch.

No matter the name of the game
The board-
Like some kinds of confinement to
Colored squares and rigidity-
Owned me.
I played by the rules
Played by somebody else's rules
Somebody else's game.

But now, I've got a Clue
That Life is just a game,
Some words are spelled backwards,
And in order to create a Monopoly
You have to make your own name
You have to play your own game.
 
 
-muse

New Year's Eve.

In the hospital, she plays her harp delicately. After a time, I hear the patient murmur, just audible over the crystalline notes.


“What day is it today?”

“Thursday,” she murmurs back, fingers still coaxing melodies from her harp's strings.

“Thursday?”

“December 31st.”

New Years Eve, in the hospital. For so many here, it won't be the new beginning they'd been hoping for. Hard to have a new beginning when you're stuck in the same starched hospital sheets.

Still playing, the harpist says “This isn't really helping much, is it.”

It's not a question.

“No.”


But she keeps playing, different songs, one of them I know from a music box, and I wonder if the patient knows it too.

She must, because I think I hear her crying beneath the familiar tune.

Her crying is a part of that familiar tune.

Her crying is a familiar tune.


New Year's Eve.


-muse

Footprints in the Snow

-muse