Scoresheets with your names
scrawled just like always
On top of the columns
Instead of in cement.

These sheets are forty years old, even more
I can almost hear you, each of you.

Yellowing pieces of paper
I can’t seem to throw away,
Precious only to me
Our words, our points, our dumb jokes,

I can almost see you,
Reaching for the tile bag,
Face pinching in thought
Hear your laugh
When you finally nailed a triple word score.

Now, the tiles are silent.
The board is boxed.
But these sheets,
they whisper.