100

at camp, we’d play crazy eights
on nights after lights out
when we couldn’t quite sleep
our flashlights illuminate
the wood flooring, pock-marked
signs of campers
from years passed

we’d split the deck and laugh quietly
sharing stories of our lives outside of this cabin
of relationships and boys and hard math tests
we’d shuffle ourselves around to
stay in the light

I miss that innocence so much
of laying my cards out and not
caring what anyone thought
inevitable, at the end of crazy eights, the
person with nothing left, wins.