Saturday, November 21, 2009

Worsted: A Saturday Poem










Worsted


Yes. Nice try. And I was born last night in a barn!
He lifts the two end tiles -- The word means yarn,
she pleads, slapping them back. Having none of it,
he grabs her wrists, saying, Where is the fun of it
if you keep inventing stuff like this? She pouts,
reaching for the dictionary. Listen, he shouts,
If you think I'm conceding six points for your 'd'
landing on the triple letter score, you're crazy!

He turns away as she holds the page up to his eyes.
Be happy with your five letters. Do you realize
you've won the last two games? Leaving the book
open on the table, she allows him this second look.
But he folds the board. And as the tiles clatter
so does her heart, in as many pieces, shatter.
She runs away, and the bedroom door is slammed,
as worsted stares back at him. Well, I'll be damned.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2009

3 comments:

Jeane said...

That's kinda funny. My husband and I play scrabble all the time, and frequently argue over words we think each other have invented. Never to the point of throwing over a game, though! We just let the dictionary referee.

Isabella said...

Sounds like he was bested.

cipriano said...

Jeane:
This is one weakness of the poem.... it is a bit exaggerant. The man in this poem.... could there be a man that is really this jerky?

Isabella:
Hah! Good point! And very true.