Each chess game is its own tragedy:

One king always falls.

Or they both stay standing, star-crossed,

staring at each other, eternally helpless.

Your opening game is strong:

Boldly controlling the center of my thoughts,

thrusting yourself into middle of the board,

and I’ve quickly lost my center.

It’s too easy to see my next moves;

but yours are elusive, unpredictable.

I’m at a disadvantage.

I haven’t play. . .

Hey, you.

Come here and put your arms around me.

Shelter me from the coming storm.

Just until it’s over.

You seem like the kind of person

that can keep me from blowing away.

Afterward I can pick through the debris

for two mason jars and something strong to drink.

You can search around in the battered books

for a dead author that understood.

I’ll find a couple of lawn chairs,

and you light. . .