Each second, no, third Tuesday they would play,
paired as they were by gravity and fate.
E(ast) pretends to rush a declaration
And W(est), no dummy, knows to look askance.
They signal in sweet brief practiced signs,
hands posted to the sides, yet intertwined
with…What was it they were to play
on their respective sides of middle C?
Stated emphatically, this ensemble holds
as well as the…ah, Mendelssohn Brilliant.
Four hands held, assessed, assembled,
partitioning a bit of yesterdays from now,
and opposition brought more than the expected,
for S, who, with silent smiling alarm,
reveals only by the spread of a thumb
on the cards. Such a game among friends
need not bow to fussy orderliness,
and N, assertive as any in such
matters, couched this with one lift of the chin,
and before the ever-prompt call for evening meal.
Paths were not always so deeply tread,
aging back, before they knew each other
so totally, and spouses still plied that something
best termed x, and N’s Alex reined undisputed,
though details have atrophied. This was girls’
fantasy, unknown to the boys; and what
did they banter between tee and green?
Mastering precisely what wasn’t to be said,
which for the defense was coded in female
DNA, for E and W clairvoyance
(score sheets revealing little difference).
At least some things had become objectively clear,
such as the over-charmed high school bracelet,
E’s daughter left when she fled home releasing
both from childhood, and in turn, that late husband’s
much missed masculine form, she disclosed,
‘Whose drive suffused but somehow kept giving,
inexpugnably,’ though begging their pardon,
and sensing she and W were strong in spades:
‘That’s trump to your most stalwart heart, my Midge!’
[Article image adapted from Adina Voicu’s original.]
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More from Don Moss: Breakfast Stories: OPEN Sign, Breakfast Stories: In a Box, Breakfast Stories: Toast, French