I am all of the chess pieces and board.
there is generally a stoic presumption in the air.
I am heat seeking the hands that cause movement
although I am presenting as oppositionally inclined.
I live for touch even though it is paced,
as long as I am mostly in parts, upright and posed.
I am pleasantly content, as mostly parts standing tall.
sometimes there is the headboard of a timer.
I also enjoy the bonuses of human touches,
done with rhythm and knickknack sounds,
almost as if a jukebox that is punched into play.
my piece-dance itself, is not like tango
but more like the steps of an advancing waltz.
sometimes the piece-touch itself has linger and grip.
early on, there is an established orientation.
it is north-south, other times, east-west.
I know of it before it happens
by their opposing seating arrangement, relative to me.
the time spent together with them like this
is a inverted hourglass experience for me,
as if my chess pieces were grains of sand,
eventually ascending off the board,
weight released from my full-board attention.
I often feel like a whittled piece of stayed flat-board,
appendages placed topside, then moved along
as if eventually to be sent away.
in the end, I am just a plain surface of well warn smile,
and those vagrant pieces, somehow returned and boxed.
and me, holding constant,
longing for another run of pieces pitched,
attention drawn, and paced pageantry.
and oh so the need,
to feel for the atmosphere of pensivity
and the regalness of each touch
lending towards movement. . .
chess, anyone?
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