I'm fond of this image of him,
sweet, vulnerable, gentle.
He knows all my games,
and still he crawls to me.
I feel seen,
almost protected
almost loved.
And I can't help but wonder,
in the late Saturday morning
what would have been of us.
If only he had learned how to read,
my poetry, my soul, my self,
if he had listened to
my voice, my plea, my cry.
But for him I was invisible,
and just like in chess
I learned how to end a king,
with foolish moves.
