Stalemate

There’s nothing more tender

Than the exhilaration of a white-hot fever,

Recalcitrant in delirium,

Disturbing calm in display.

Like the game two queens play

Till blinkered to kings,

Till pawn becomes treasure

And treasure dies away.

It is the game that taps quickly to foray

And lays

Waste to regiment, clergy, royalty

As long as queens will try.

But it is the rarity of cunning

Charity; an innocent trick,

The consensual gambit

That percolates routine,

And have queens

Rip off their black-white sheens,

To reveal two players, seeing.

And players don’t always see,

So they play their queens,

Their kings away;

For a conspiratorial victory-----

An emptied army,

A nugatory piece,

Neither moves,

Neither loses.

A white-hot stalemate on the board.