Anniversary

Acrid smoke drifts across
the hardwood floor,
under the small wooden table
where the chess set waits,
white and black squatting
resentfully; my king
reproaching me for his inevitable death.

The methodical march from square to square
holds your attention while my eyes
roam to the speakers,
the Indigo Girls rough and strong
over babble, through smoke.

I take a pawn,
eyes still on the speakers.
somehow I have managed to
blindside your strategy -
broken the first law of chess:
never move at random.
I breathe shallowly as the smoke thickens,
sip my herbal tea, the huge ceramic mug
dwarfing your espresso.

My king is finally trapped.
I regard my hands, pay my half of the bill,
follow you into the warm night -
humidity creeping methodically
into my body,
beaten back by the first fall breeze.