A felt hat or a cane,
a pair of worn out shoes
on a road thought
left behind—
or a hand-carved chess set
passed down from my grandfather:
the king’s crown
a bent nail,
the knight’s horse,
a nub on a pedestal
robbed of wings,
its would-be nose
blunt and chipped.
The queen can still fly anywhere.
Pawns are hardly worth her time:
each quickly sacrificed
to vacant spaces,
each hoping instead
for a personal invitation,
for his own particular
key to sadness.
