Game night

In the evenings
I feel like a dusty shelf of games.
My bones are loose Jenga blocks.
My fingers are KerPlunk sticks.
The toothpick size scar on my left arm,
the keyholes on my left knee
and the tiny cross on my wrinkled scrotum
are countless rounds of Operation.
Every orifice is a circle on a Twister mat.
My freckles and moles are dot to dots,
my mind a half full Scrabble bag
with an I here, an O there,
and more than one Y.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

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