If Only Poem by Greg Costello

Sideways facing on the settee, our mirrored postures,
Separated only by the width of the draughts board;
It's smooth, round, passive counters
And cold, glazed, monochrome check.

Deliberate pause had been taken in the day,
An unbuckling of the straight-jacket of routine;
Sharing now an unfamiliar space, filled with lightness,
Softness, and huffing of a different kind.

She was a girl again, a childish alloy of excitement and intent,
Fingering the captured pieces like a poker player his chip-stack;
Delighting in each zig-zag double jump; sliding in first to be kinged.
For her it was the perfect game; rules, borders, limits,
Everything decided there and then in black and white.
I sat thinking. 'If only there was more time for moments like these'
The oven's timer chirped, and I would have to wait,
Until the next time I was home from school, unwell.