Poem: At the Mahjong Table

I remember
my father at the mahjong table
passing his hands over
the smooth marble tiles
marked with images
of bamboo and balls
and of the Four Directions
North, South
East, West
Separating them into
pairs of two and forming
each side of a triangle.
I looked over his shoulder
taking in every strategy
as he chose one tile
to discard another
forming rows of numbers
pairs and long chains
pon and ron
chips and money changed hands
Planning only went so far
and then there was luck.

Of course mother never approved
because gambling
went against her morality
and her religion.
But she couldn't stop him.