We rain into a state in a game of Checkers,
where there were no more possible moves.
In kitchen backsplashes, we pray.
Cut the brave red from my head,
and the black ink off my left arm.
Allow for signatures, but not sunsets peaceful.
I am a victim of impact.
The steamy potential –
and the demonic possession – that is love.
My soul is more than I am willing to give.
Interior weather wins with thundering.
The tiled lives, broken by
commercials and car accidents,
make for good places to put memories,
if only they were not mine.