Chinese checkers
on a Sunday evening
the room aglow
with fierce horizon heat,
we’d squint and continue
novicely shuffling pieces
until our eyelids fell
with the burning colors of day
Papa would play his guitar
on Monday nights
to an audience of two.
His only fans,
we’d stare at fingers,
powerful and calloused
and strumming warm melodies
enticing our slumber
Friday nights
we’d play baseball
on the front lawn
until it was too dark
and we couldn’t help but strike out.
And later, in our beds,
as our young muscles grew heavy,
we’d slip into tomorrow
Every Saturday
we’d drive to visit Mama
and she’d be sitting by her window,
staring, and we’d touch her hands
and Papa would tell her what we did
this week, without her.
She would nod, still gazing away
and those nights, I’d see her face
not looking at me
and I would not sleep