Game Piece

The myth of the archer in a mythical wood
As he stalks his match, last of its species,
Is a drama with this final act:
Both rivals' lives end before meeting.
His match is also his perfect mate—
White king versus black, ever-mourning,
Or Narcissus kissing his rippled face—
Choose the image you deem most alluring.

When I was young and susceptible,
I used to cry myself to sleep
After a night of lariat-tossing,
Whack-a-moling, and other diversions.
I'd nock my arrow at every shadow
That thundered by my boscaged blind;
But to wound a shadow fatally
Requires a skill I don't possess.
I'm less a huntsman than a poor poacher
Who sets his snares for lesser game:
A toad, perhaps, or newt, or snake;
There is no sport in bagging snails.

I used to fall in love at the rate
Of thirty-two feet per second per second
As I fixated on the native idols,
Dark-featured and shapely, like bas-reliefs.
(I still go goo-goo for them at times . . .)
But my slingshotted shot puts have never reached
Escape velocity, and thus it follows
That uplifted hearts must crash to earth—
Any hope of orbit is folly.

I'll continue to play the game as I wish;
As futile as blunderers' tactics may be,
There's still an exiguous chance that my aim
Will align with destiny's expert bead,
And my foe who is friend will faint at my feet,
Will go limp and allow me to carry him
Back to the lodge and my trophy room
Wherein all conquests are sanctified.

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Game Piece