Maybe it was the floor,
checked, receding, like a perspective drawing
where inconsequential games are played
which inspired the thought, the question:
“If you were a chess piece,
what would it be?”
“A pawn,” he said,
turning with a wry smile
then looking away,
knowing it would be immodest to admit
the more true – well documented – calling
Black knight, guardian of the proper order of things
servant of bishops, at one time even Her Majesty
vigilant, wary, in city or swamp
layered with layers of guise and disguise
(which linger still, they linger; secrets
dance like mad revelers; they won’t sit down)
but stripped now, as we all were, of shield and sword
I poke at my salad,
sip water from a plastic cup
my corner fiefdom overrun now by strangers
a compromised rook
removed from the board