The woman moves an ancient
lamp closer to the kitchen table,
then, with a quick swish of cloth,
wipes crumbs into her cupped hand.
Light from the lamp pools
around the man and child.
Shadow fills the corners
and darkens pink roses on walls
sagging from years of wear.
Shadow and light blanket each player,
holding them separate and alone.

The man loosens a starched white
shirt at the collar. Skin, wet with sweat,
glistens olive. A tooth flashes gold
when he smiles at the woman.
He studies the child, leans back in his chair,
away from the center and with hands,
swollen jointed, he flick cards across
the red-checked cloth swish, swish,
toward the woman and the child.

Wisps of hair, wet-black, from Saturday
night's bath, curl into ringlets, and cling
to the child's flushed face resting on the
table's sharp edge. Fingers count cards,
tapping a rhythm through the air.

The woman pushes once-black hair away
from skin wearied by sun and presses finger-tips
against bony temples before she peers at each
card through silver-rimmed glasses. Lines
deepen around eyes, darkened blue with
concentration, and teeth bite pale lips.