They play at love, as one would play at chess
with move and countermove across a board
of squares and lines they think they know. Ignored,
some warning signs. A moment of distress

when one smart gambit falters, and a tut
of bored impatience when a quip falls flat
that should have charmed. And neither senses that
their breathing has grown fast. The door is shut

all audience has gone. One move too far
might cause a fool’s mate. Both are scared the game
might end as othera had. Neither can claim
the victory. The best such endgames are

ones where you throw the pieces in the air
defeated wipe your tears on victor’s hair.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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