Rhythms: Maladjusted Lovers

Source. Pexels. Gary Barnes, Photographer

by LJ Frank


Glowing cheeks, inviting smiles

these Lords possessed

hiding the simian textures

beneath their skin

a testament that eyes were never

the windows of the soul

and of little matter were the words that slowly dripped

 from the thin lips of their gaping mouths and double chins

while standing on the intensely hued dais

with a vocabulary tasting of bitter chocolate

and honey covered shallots

washed down the throat with a young merlot

and followed by a proclamation by this noblesse oblige

that they were the final voice in all theatrical matters.


With uncertainty she and I tested our will and retreated

to the antechamber overlooking a chessboard lawn

manicured to accentuate the chessmen of whom two were missing

and amid our stirrings my lover felt a wave of ambiguity

with her God of Comedy and Drama,

acknowledging the dilemma, I steeled my courage

to confront Him on her behalf and so I pleaded

with the bearded Old Man in the oil painting

located on an ancient looking granite wall

and noted he remained emotionless with a fixed gaze

beyond any matter that might evoke grace,

I implored His countenance whether justice be blind

to the consensual seducer and seduced, to no avail.


Still, it’s not that I am chivalrous, but I am

so, taking a deep breath She and I admitted

we were in fact the two missing chessmen,  

clothed in the sensitive armor of a pedestrian nature

with no consternation in touching the alcoves of intimacy

with light shining through the stained glass of carnal spirituality

and apart from the puppetry of the cultural critique 

we were without any doubt, maladjusted lovers

wanting a private stage for our affectionate theater.