3

Uno's an aggressive game
when playing with a Russian,
four Americans, and a Honduran
named Raul. When we slap
green 6's, yellow skips and red +2's,
everyone's a Zicke.

To my left, a plus four color change
offers green and fick dich. Someone
whispers Uno and everyone groans.
This is a family game, somewhere--
where Uncle Jim slips candy under
the table and Dad tsks your sister
when he's skipped. But not here.

Here, we drink Jever and take too
big bites of a doner kebab, cabbage
falls on the plate, mixes briefly
with lamb shavings. I pluck a piece
and pop it in my mouth before playing
a blue 4. It tastes like Italy and nostalgia.

Or the alley outside our apartment,
where you used to call for keys
or homework assignments, while old men
with canes tapped at the cobble stones,
shaking their heads. I'd duck behind
the windowsill, giggling to myself.
When a pigeon pops up and stares at me,
I scream, and back here, when you play
that final card, I hear a pigeon coo
and it's all the same everywhere, ja?