If the Orange Cones were Pawns I Could Be Queen

orange cones coax traffic to the far lane
a cluster of men with pressure hoses
transforms in broad swaths
the bridge’s walk and railing
flogging the grit and grey of winter
from every surface and crevice

my own seasonal shift proceeds slowly
I must move beyond my comfortable sphere
of chicken dinners and sitcoms
step out where strangers meet and ideas collide
venture a story or line
beyond my living room

chess at the breakfast table
is a quick jump to defense
a greater mind than mine
fashioned this game
my son more skillful than I
pushes me to see six moves ahead

I choose random
we’re traveling to the train station
so it must be raining
the mist excites a halo of hair
I veer left but my passion
flies upward