Daylight folds again.
The reluctant sun
surrenders the hand
she was dealt.
Weary, we shuffle
into the living room.
Ready for bed,
mouths minty fresh,
cheeks scrubbed clean,
cozy in cotton pajamas,
our family assembles
for another round.
We’re teaching the kids
how to play hearts.
An artificial glow
oozes out from the shade
of the corner table lamp,
bathing us in gold
as the darkness closes in.
Drawing the blinds shut
to block our own reflections,
we pick up our hands,
carefully examine them.
We begin with
a review of the game’s
backwards rules:
Avoidance is the goal.
Lowest total wins.
Follow the suit that leads
(unless you’re out of options)
Hearts rack up points
(so be careful to discard them)
Remember you can’t
lay yours down until
hearts have been broken.
Beware the queen of spades,
blending into the pack:
her blackened heart
flips upside down.
Get stuck with this one
and it’s all over for you
(unless you’re lucky enough
to shoot the moon)
Strategy eludes
my short-term memory.
I don’t overthink:
toss a card into the pile,
feign shock or indifference
to my plight, memorize
the melody of their laughter,
rack up stacks of smiles.
We play until bedtime,
tally up our blessings,
then tuck them safely
in for another night.
birdseed and breadcrumbs 