queen of the cess

drama was the swing 
in that checkered little playground 
and ignorance surely was king.

and the truth it gets obscured,
but feels bright and sharp, 
and his freestyle is fried green tomatillos,

I’m displaced from the board, sans the crown, sans the heart, sans the root, and the rootdown, and the umpteen shades.

I’ve got the velvet cuffs and the bell-sleeves,

but without the passion and the intimate flow of grounded light,

queen turns in shadows like a dervish,

cutting in on stolen dances,

cashing in on stolen glances,

checks aren’t really a part of this game are they?

empty vinegar and vim,

vigored allegiances on whim,

cloaked in undress,

crystalline in the undertow, 
and tangled and knotted in the exchange,

the song remains the same.

and the sharks can bare their bonds,

but I’m past their reach,

of bare knuckled surly significance,

just a handful of checkers,

and the kings have lost their queens.