The old men are gathered
like pigeons around their chessboard
chuckling at the clumsiness
of kings and their own
supposed secret cleverness.
I watch them at a distance,
baffled by the afternoon’s illusory splendor
outraged that anyone could stand
this winter’s austerity without you
your nimble maneuver of marble queens,
your smile to charm the skies
into a sigh of clemency.
I suppose I imagined your absence
an apology on the gate,
the Sunday cravats dispersed
among the peonies, a farewell
till next week, when you’ll return
revel in the aurulent hours
and scowl at the pawns.
I wanted to find you here
or else find no one at all;
without you, who should bother
to wander the courts of Luxembourg
and engage in this kindred warfare.
You’re only a mile away
and yet I mourn the emptiness
shadowed on your place
wish to ask the old men
if they miss you,
wish to bring you home
some news of their fondness.