Blond-wood tiles prone,
scrabbled on the floor of a wine-colored box,
each one hiding a letter of the alphabet,

routed, carved, painted black,
with a tiny numeric companion
denoting its value.

Each one, that is, except two
which have no countenance,
identical, front and back, indiscernible.

They may be staring at us now
for all we know, from the jumble,
expressionless.

There is power in their anonymity.
If we draw one among the others,
it attains wild-card status on the rack.

It can be anything,
the great pretender,
filling the void, the need for completion,

impersonating any character,
given the right vocabulary
and imagination.

It can be the “E” in “REMAND”,
the “K” in “OAKUM”,
the “Q” in “PIQUANT”.

By itself, it is worth nothing.
Its value is strategy, placement,
the context of the whole.

It is a catalyst,
agent provocateur,
moving faceless through a crowd of names.

And we are thankful
when it appears in the right place
at the right time.

10/11/2001

Posted on 10/11/2001
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt