No News is No News

Peppered with wine and guarded
by a shadow sword, he cries when
I move the pieces on the board. He
twists in the free fall, trying to regain
composure. Floundering through
the air, disaster approaching below.
The plunge from dignity is too long
and he wants just one souvenir
kiss. The defeated, forced embrace
reeks of booze. Our four feet stronger,
more stable than his two. He wins
with only two pieces to use.
Check and mate.
No news is no news.