Moon

Momma sent me to bring daddy home for dinner,

but I wouldn’t open the heavy glass door

until I heard him Shoot the Moon!

So I pressed my ear against the

black-painted windows of Smith's domino parlor

listening for my father's voice to rise

above the rapid fire click clack of six

simultaneous games of moon.

I thought the game must have been named

for the small ivory dots I was not yet old enough—

could not count fast enough—

to join in the game with the men, when,

after last suppers at family reunions, they

gathered ‘round an old folding table set up

under a broad cottonwood and played

far into the night, long after the real moon

dropped like a quarter into the velvet pocket

of the western horizon.

Sometimes I would fall asleep under the table

mesmerized by my grandpa's worn black socks

bunched up around his swollen ankles.

Near dawn, my father, smelling of cigarettes and beer,

carried me to my bed where I dreamed of a domino train,

its horn trumpeting Moooooonnn to the stars.