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.

10 thoughts on “100

  1. What you described in your poem is what many of us experienced when we were growing up. A time of innocence that we all sometimes wish we could go back and capture once again. The nostalgia of your poem will resonate with many people. Beautifully written Elle. I love it as it brings backs so many memories, Stan

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: [Not] A Lot of Words to Say | Short Poem No. 87 | Writing With Strangers

    1. I’m replying to my own comment. I do weird things like that. Anyways, I had another thought. People always say that at the end of your life the one with the most toys, wins. You said just the opposite of what we always hear. You get so much more when you give. You can have nothing and have everything at the same time.

      Liked by 1 person

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