THE BALLAD OF THE CHESS WIDOW

There was a day when I was young and pretty
’twas when we met,
and I would bet,
back then, he counted me a beauty . .

The dreams of life ran high
the limit, higher than the ample sky–
and everything were possible,
forget the how and when and where and why–

Years have gone by
and events
some petty and some grand–

not knowing end results,
we’ll punctuate our lines with final ampersand,
for so much has passed,
so different from what we’d hoped,
or planned

somehow, through it all we’ve coped,
but for tonight,
It’s sad to have him out of sight,
where he’s romancing his opponent,
or perhaps the game
and trying to save his queen, his knight
and at last,
the concept all makes sense to me,
how some have spoken of the chess widow’s plight

and I, ponderous
on what we’ve lost, do muse
on what we,
in the mix,
may gain
the beauty, life
we yet may see
may raise us
to an unprecedented plane.

But, for now, he’s pushing pieces on a board
and I,
in falling dusk,
sit staring at a glowing screen,
alone.

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