Does it feel like home,
Arrayed with pawns in front,
Rooks on the furthest flanks,
And his and her majesty nestled in the back middle?
Or is more like sysaphis, fighting with all that you have, and then having to find more,
Launching forth, And then returning to where you began
And beginning it all again?
Does even the queen
Sit in silent wonder
At the strange geometry
Practiced by those knights?
Do you bishops
Join together in some kind of communion
Or is your banishment
To opposing colors
A doctrinal divide
That you might never cross.
You’re a shifty king.
Moving in every direction
But only one space at a time.
Does it create any problems in the bedroom,
That you’re wife moves so much more quickly than you?
Do you drool as you trudge only foreward?
Do you salivate at the possibility of a diagonal kill?
You used to watch your camerade’s profile.
And now all your scenery is his backside.
Does it keep you going
That once in a lifetime possibility
Of trudging quietly and unnoticed
Square by agonizing square
Until you reach the end that hallowed ground
That last space where once your opponents sat
You step into that square a pawn, but you find yourself
Suddenly something more.