Click, clack,
Snoosh, Snick.
The chips are flying now.
Into but mostly out of my heap.
Black, of course.
It's always black.
White never seems to work.
Not that black is much better,
But black at least has dignity in loss.

It even obscures her for a while,
Until he pops his head up.
It's a brassy thing, you see.
Single in crowds of pairs.
Immobile, staring bridges.
Shaking, penetrating brass.
Disrespectful accommodation.

Dereliction in dampness, then.
Or destruction through reconstruction.
Whatever.
Anything but that again.
It doesn't belong here.
This is a different era.
She wouldn't understand,
Until she realised the waste.

Is it a wheel?
Are we the ball?
Can it be that random?
If we play enough, will we be even?
Just how many zeroes are there?
I can't let myself know,
Nor will you tell me,
Yet.