Afternoons at the Lake
I would rather be trapped in an attic with rats than play Monopoly all the afternoons it takes to lose the last of my money to the already superrich 1 percent grandchild, to line up cheap green houses on my low-rent Baltic and Mediterranean Avenues in a futile attempt to collect enough to survive the next round of rent on Boardwalk or Park Place, to feel pitiful gratitude when I Receive for Services twenty-five dollars. Everything will be gone, save the smallest denominations, the Asian crayfish will overrun the native, the autumn olive will proliferate, the tallest thing will grow taller, will be layered with gold, will turn to gold, will harden its gold heart. It will squander, jet, pocket, dole, win past wanting to win, dig the mine shaft, the ore, eat up the hillside, the birds, the whales, crack the foundations of houses, force the defaulters into the street. Dice will land as they will, will cause the tiny car to bounce happily from St. James Place to Indiana Avenue, a galaxy of gobble, will enable the placement of flamboyant hotels on the coast where waters wash with exquisite music shoreward, all of it owned by the God who dwells inside the winning, who has not said otherwise yet, who owns Free Parking and Jail, who owns the treeless board, the classy neighborhoods as well as the ones with the rats and smashed-out windows, the murderous scrawl of languages on walls, the smiling God holding the center with top hat and cane, as I at last step out on the dock with my coffee and say to myself the lines where Keats rhymes “think” with “nothingness do sink.”
Copyright © 2018 Fleda Brown. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Summer 2018.