Dominoes

My grandfather blocked the game,

Was happy

When, sitting at the table after lunch,

I asked him to play.

Was happier

When I had to draw from the boneyard.

I watched, learned.

Later,

I blocked, he drew, emptied the boneyard 

of the black-dotted tiles,

Was unhappy.

I emptied my hand.

“Domino!” I shouted,

Counting his pips.

I tried to teach my sons.

Failed. Couldn’t lift my foot off the pedal

Of winning. They gave up.

Not sure why I 

Didn’t when my grandfather counted my pips.

Not a craftsman or tradesman,

I worry about

What to pass on.

My grandfather learned.

My father didn’t.

I did.

My sons haven’t.

I have no grandkids yet.

Sometimes something skips 

A generation or even dies out. 

In my sixty-fourth year

I’m waiting

For someone to come along

from the next one

To shuffle the pile.

—David Markwardt