Endgame Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

I try not staring at the guy
who stares at me all day.
These cubicles get stale.
I keep out
of our company's affairs.
One sight of HER,
we all turn pale.
Can't even look back at the boss,
I'm told.
I see them shifting past,
some bounding stud
or biased holy,
rookies buffed and bold.
Not work,
it's war.
They're out for blood.
They say
they'll treat me royal
if I make it through the ranks.
Across,
the other team's new guy,
the rumor says,
is out to take my spot.
I ask,
'Who sets up these extremes?
Who moves the mover
of us pawns? '
Next I expect to hear
“The queen is dead!
The king's been checked! ”