By Abigail Warren

The worn board,
   its creases frayed

sits between us
   on the couch

each with our own tray
   of letters, mine all vowels

you keep score, reminding me
   of your skillful play

I move the letters around as if
   a magic word might appear

that levels this playing field
   my Q never finds her

U and your triple word squares
   form a ladder to nowhere

I hang in though, study this line-up
   waiting my turn

hoping for that one spot, still there,
   wondering if you see it.