01 02 03 Prone to Wander: Love Poem No 1 04 05 15 16 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 31 32 33

Love Poem No 1

34

I place my tiles,
strategically,
on the board,
careful not to make eye contact.
Sure enough,
his brow furrows in that
look I have grown to love
over the years.
“Fod?” he asks.
“Yes, fod. It’s a type of fish…in Australia.”
“It is, is it?”
The left corner of his
mouth raises as he flips
through the “go to” book—
to verify or protest, you know.
“Nope, it’s not,” he says,
closes the book.
“It’s a newer type of fish—
probably not in there yet,” I declare.
He considers.
Suddenly this man who may smile some,
but rarely laughs, does just that.
Deep, rumbling laughter explodes from him
as he throws his head back and
his face crinkles, red. Minutes pass.
“Okay,” he finally says and pulls the tiles
from the board, one by one.
as methodically as I had placed them.
He hands them back.
I take them.
“Fod, is it? Let’s make it for dinner tomorrow.”


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