now tell me that you want to play
some ancient board game again?
Was it the one you chucked away,
with vivid bright, primary colours?
Two counters to fall on one square
and you’ll miss your turn, be sent
back home to stick, twist and burn
in emerald flames of self-doubting
till it was all over bar the shouting.
now choose to bring us here again,
nine months lapsing or maybe ten?
The struggle it takes to remember
only matches all the grief it takes
to forget and is scarcely worth it.
We could quickly dust it all down,
pull it out from beneath our beds,
unbox it with pursed resigned sighs.
Well, let us set out musty pawns,
disentomb some dog-eared boards
notched in neglect, passing seasons,
where it rotted in tears and reasons.
now handwave and say it’s all fine
because any problem is solely mine;
a past only living in my dark mind?
It consumes time to express regret,
sure. So, shall we both sit opposite,
trotting our counters and complete
leaden circuits once more? Compete
friendly as rivals, cunning at poking
gentle jibes of perhaps only joking?
Mirrors reflect imperfect silhouettes;
easily our hands could cup cool dice,
shake, baby, shake a six to sacrifice
in the name of stratagem or demise;
how long before, bright blinding light
bares Miss Scarlet wielding lead pipe?
now get out of jail and, in passing go,
land on no chance at all? I know how
if you put your lips around it and blow,
you’re talking whistles and waterworks.
Away with Cluedo, and if you’re lonely
shake tail feathers among show ponies
on the beach, watch washing breakers
erase cheapskate hopscotch heartaches
of scores, written for you on the sand.
Many chances of winning thrown away,
until even fate refuses to throw or play
again; won’t even bother to draw lots
as to whether you make it home or not.