Chess

The 5 `o clock traffic
crawls through
the muslin of November.

And Queen`s Street station
bustles to goodbyes.

Past the haze
of coffee stalls

trains beat their wings
on the violet walls
of dusk,

as the city turns home.

And you and I
will play our game of chess,

defend abstract concepts
in black and white
deceits

or manoveure pawns
to a silent checkmate.

From the worn beige
of the 5.30 direct

I watch crowds scatter
like handfuls of dust.