Philip

I’m reading when the shuffle of cards, like the slap
of fresh milk spilt onto the floor,
reminds me of Philip. Old man,
taught me how to play crib without words — for he couldn’t talk.
Dinner was daily at half past five, mashed peas and sirloins,
but his gestures insisted, there’s time, there’s still time.
You need fifteen points for a game. I caught nearly that much
from the wasp-like gestures of his papery hands
over the cards, his touch, tap-tap — for he couldn’t talk.
Somehow, at fifteen, I caught that much.
The pegs progressed slowly, for he did the dealing
and totalled our scores. He cast the shadows
of his hands on mine. It’s a blur. We played but never spoke.
I could never teach anyone that way. Though I could learn tonight,
I’d still wonder how he did it: no sound, no enemy, no fight.