Reluctantly reaching for her favorite deck
of shiny blue Bicycle poker cards,
the strain on Mom's work-ruined back pains her.
A small groan falls from her tired, pale lips.
Her back still gives her trouble these days.
As she tries to shuffle
the perfect pile of slick cards,
her swollen fingers fumble the deck.
One, two, ten cards are dealt --
Mother in the purple pajamas Father hates so much.
Our nightly ritual of gin rummy on the floor
quickly transforms from an innocent card game
into a deadly battlefield
of aces, deuces, fives and others.
She arranges her little paper soldiers in a fan
and eyes them more carefully.
A husky sigh escapes into the quiet
as she examines my face for signs of weakness.
King of hearts, two of clubs, five of spades...
She'll mutter loudly under her foul breath
of bananas and sour ice cream.
As she clumsily grasps at my first sacrifice,
another of her warriors goes down
to the line of fire to replace it.
At that sight of my snatching up her little paper friend,
a cloud of disappointment
slips across her wrinkled mouth and brow.
After my next discard,
her looks of approval drip on my fallen soldier.
Presenting her next attack move to the war of black and red,
her small hazel eyes show that her eight of spades
might somehow give her another chance
to unite the small army in front of her.
Mother mumbles about her aches
and scrunches her cold, dry toes until they crack.
She pretends to watch television and not worry
about my next deadly move.
At last, possessing all clubs in my hand,
I discard the five of hearts
and fan my triumphed army onto the carpet.
My war cry of "Gin!" stings the air.
Mother smiles obsequiously though she’s sore from losing.
She sleepily gathers the remains of her conquered militia
and lays them face-down in defeat.
She says goodnight with a tired smile
and limps the first three steps to her room,
almost falling into the plant by the door.
Her leg still gives her trouble these days.
I hear the top of her huge brown bottle
of pain killers on her dresser pop off,
and the familiar rattle of her little white saviors.
She'll soon retreat to the safety
of the warm waterbed she shares with Father.
The gentle sea of waves will gently rock her to sleep,
only to be awakened by her own snoring.
We'll probably play again tomorrow.
Tomorrow, maybe she won't be so tired.
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