She visits old man Whittiker on invite, wearing clean well-worn clothes.
Her mischievous greeting smile and wrinkling forehead,
burrows of life, burrows of time, quickly disappears
as she walks through the door;
carrying a deck of cards and a cribbage board.
He could tell she played this game before.
They have coffee. They play cribbage. 15-2, 15-4,
15-6, and on and on it goes.
Up one side of the board and down the other
until he’s skunked.
Still counting each hole with one finger,
checking the peg’s last hole and repeating the score,
she takes his hand, pulls him up the stairs
winks at him singing quietly, but quite audibly,