I wake each morning at half past nine,
brush my teeth, swallow my pills,
brew the coffee,
then tackle the daily Wordle.
Wordle is what gives me life hope.
Like mother love
or finding a twenty-dollar bill.
A mind-tickler, a super-vitamin,
keeping my neurons and protons firing,
the red blood pumping to my frontal lobes.
One gets six guesses to find the secret word
but four or five are usually enough.
Three are cause for celebration,
two are like winning the lottery.
This is why Wordle is addictive.
Mental strain, yes, but
one success after the next.
I play Wordle with the multitudes,
fellow Wordlers in Stockholm and San Salvador,
Cedar Rapids and Missoula.
Republicans and Democrats,
Blacks and Whites,
Church-goers and atheists.
Billions of Wordlers,
all working together
toward a single goal.
My son does Wordle too.
He is more successful because
he belongs to a more woke generation.
The New York Times tells me
how
my results compare with the masses.
I am proud to report that I am
almost always a perfect average.
A reassuring accomplishment
for one who worries
that his brain
might be getting wobbly.
