Bill Christophersen

B i l l   C h r i s t o p h e r s e n

Engine

Its miniature cowcatcher catches my eye

from the bottom of a shoebox full of gimcracks

and old Polaroids: a gilt locomotive,

half an inch high from camshaft to smokestack,

an inch or so long. I scrutinize the black

hole of its window.

                            It’s 1955.

My four-year-old sister and I are walking back

from Sunday school. We stop outside the dry

cleaner’s, try the charm machine, and right

away her dumb-luck penny wins this prize.

Later I would pester her to swap

the charm she loved. She would refuse and cry.

I would persist, bull-headed, till it was mine.

For a cheesy, dime-a-dozen bubble pipe.

Six Os and an I

Turn ’em in, Jack. No

triple letter space or

double word score can

redeem this hooky player’s

Delany card of a

hand, and to pin ’em

one by one to an open

S or T—what’s

the point? This

isn’t about being a

good sport or being

good with words, it’s

about the luck of the

draw and the

art of saying uncle.

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