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The folded board, a map of childhood dreams,
Unfurled upon the rug in sunlit streams.
Familiar streets from Baltic to the Park,
A tiny metal shoe to leave its mark.

The banker, Dad, with stern yet loving hand,
Dispensing crisp pretend across the land.
My brother clutched his Scottie sleek and black,
While I, the thimble, knew there's no turning back.

The rattling dice, a promise and a threat,
Landing on GO, a joyful small reset.
Buying up properties, a shrewd campaign,
Green houses sprouted easing all the pain.

The orange squares, a terror to behold,
Hotels looming, stories to be told
Of bankruptcies and deals made late at night,
A whispered bargain under lamp's soft light.

Community Chest, a chance to rise or fall,
"Bank error in your favor," thrilled us all.
Chance cards with fortunes good and sometimes grim,
"Go to Jail," a fate that felt so dim.

The little metal tokens worn and smooth,
Each held a history, a game's past proof.
Arguments would rise then quickly fade away,
Lost in the thrill of winning for the day.

The satisfying clink of rent being paid,
The triumphant shout when someone's game decayed.
That cardboard money, flimsy yet so grand,
Held power in our small and eager hand.

Now years have passed, the board lies tucked away,
But in my mind, I still can almost play.
The scent of cardboard, the dice's gentle click,
A nostalgic echo of a joyful trick
Of childhood hours where fortunes could be won,
On Parker Brothers' map beneath the setting sun.

©bfa042325

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