pawn unpromoted

He was still-born, unborn,
a child of another man
she said.

Still torn
he page s through
memory.

Sifting through trinklets
in a hurricaine
a ring
once worn.

Moons have passed since
the sun counted endless
hours of today's remembrance.

He holds no monument
a loss without a name.
No claim.
He was not his, but his,
her lover, the one
which ended him,
and started this other.

Her love still stings
still slings him across stars
each with their own
hemisphere of yearning
each their own world
of burning.

He is told, that in her tummy
the child of the other stopped breathing.
He sees her face, as beautiful as day,
meeting waterfalls.

She says she hoped one day
for him to be a father.
She met another who gave her
a baby,
one unborn, still-born inside her.

She still had his heart the night
she made love to another.

The child was not his but his
it is said.
His heart was not this but this...

it is dead, it is said.

Ode to my dog

Rambo would have played chess
were it not for the fact that he
preferred avocados.

He would have been a GM
were it not for the fact
that he guarded lives
with every sense of his being.

He would have been Danish Gambit King
were it not for the fact that he was a Rotti
and preferred bradworst to cake.

Though I would have loved to
have shared with my dog this game
that I love so much.
The thought of Rambo being anything different
in my childhood brain was too hard to imagine.

For I knew, he would have become World Champion
and may have forgotten to meet me
at the gate in all his enthusiasm
to play catch.

Chess may have lost a potential master
I on the other hand
greedily kept my friend.