Gurdonark's Bad Poetry (gurdonpoems) wrote,
Gurdonark's Bad Poetry

83 The elapsing minute glass

Long on "q", light on "u",
you look for triple word scores
for which you lack only consonants and vowels.

The sands run out, dwindling down,
you think of "cat"'s and "rug"'s you've spelled,
words for which others get double credit
by adding "s" or "dr".

But you should focus on the play at hand,
with three letters "t" and a "w" in your tray,
letters which seemed serviceable when drawn,
blank and unseen,
but now seem banal in their universal utility,
and their situational uselessness.

The timer, better suited to poached eggs
than to defining your wordlessness,
amid the torrents of words you know,
none of which fit,
and you think improbably of things you've said
too often and not too well,
instead of the simple word you need to spell now.

You grasp letters on your tray,
make a quick play while time permits,
with four letters,
too few and inadequately scored,
you spell out your destiny,
you count the points, draw your slates
pray for a new "u".

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