GIN RUMMY WITH MY DAD

GIN RUMMY WITH MY DAD

 

King of hearts, dad;

don’t you need a king?

What about an ace?

He taught me to hang on to aces.

We sit at the same kitchen table

where we sat ten years before

I went to college -

legs of pitted chrome rest

on faded linoleum.

We drink tea and play

his favourite game of Gin

but he can’t focus on numbers,

suits, runs and pairs,

clever discards

to keep me on my toes.

 

Slouched in pajamas, his gloom winds a dreary path

he seldom shaves or speaks.

Clubs, dad; you’re saving clubs.

More tea?

Tea, he loves; reminds him of England

and war. He joined without a thought

of his new wife, now his nurse.

Your shuffle, dad.

I peer like an astronomer exploring space,

seeking some new star.

He nods, sips the tea,

forgets to ask the score.