Playing Scrabble

After awhile–

Approximately a lifetime–

You get tired

Of trying to make

Sense of the world

With words.


Discarding their 

Unpardonable power,

You deem them

Impotent, if only

For their relentless

Presence in your mouth,

Ears, and brain–

Even eyes–frankly

Speaking, you get


Sick of them.

They’re like people

In that respect.


Which is why,

If you’re like me,

You like to play

With them instead

Sometimes, throwing

Out syntax

In favor of double letter

And triple word scores,


Ever vexed by exes, zeds,

And Qs, perplexed

By the haphazard

Row of vowels

Staring back at you

From your green plastic

Tray (unless you’re lucky

Enough to have a wooden

Set) like monogrammed

Pats of butter, and then


You grow weary

Of the alphabet’s

Absurdity, of the futility

Of sedentary combat


With a student, friend,

Or spouse.  The board

Grows crowded

With random verbiage

Until the bag of tiles

Is empty, you 

Work with what’s left

Until your patience 

Ends, and you fold

And tilt the board

Into the bag,

Thank your opponent

For a game well-played,

And go surf the internet

In search of words

Strung together with purpose,


A maze of meaning

In which to get lost

For the rest of your 

Life, a blizzard

Of symbols and sounds

To pass the time

Before you lie

Down in a box

In silence, utterly

Devoid of anything

To say, read, or write,

Deprived by the cessation

Of vital functions–

Suddenly profound

Due to your newfound

Ability to shut up




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