Eventually, this game was banished to the basement,
but I used to play it anyway, torturing myself with
anticipation of the buzzer, all the pieces exploding
from their homes because I had failed at the task
of placing all of them before time ran out.
But which basement? I swear, I remember this
from the last house, our final destination,
the last place my mother lived. She and I played
Boggle, not Perfection, at the kitchen table — laughing
at dirty words, not bothering to write them down.

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5 (to explain later)