He always wants to play chess with us, but he misses the pieces
in our heads that take him so, that him himself eludes so sternly,
in the rings of his spectacles his eyes keep shifting.
He then succumbs, accepts the grenadine to save his face.
He cannot do without the shards in his head but dreams
a blackboard, softer chalk and what he knows in brilliant dustlight
from tall windows falls on his hands and them to kiss.
He looks at us from the loops of his eyes, unforgettable,
how thick we are. We must have beer after another well-ordered
day of reality to quell in good cheer what we are
in fortifying stories for the paupers of the soul.
He rises from his chair and puts the chessboard on our little table sorrow.
The yokels draw up theirs, begrudging him the king.
