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This morning
as low clouds skidded over
the spires of the city

I found next to a bench
in a park an ivory chess piece—

the white knight as it turned out—
and in the pigeon-ruffling wind

I wondered where
all the others were,
lined up somewhere

on their red and black squares,
many of them feeling uneasy

about the salt shaker
that was taking his place,

and all of them secretly longing
for the moment

when the white horse
would reappear out of nowhere

and advance toward the board
with his distinctive motion,

stepping forward, then sideways
before advancing again,

the same moves
I was making him do
over and over
in the sunny field of my palm.

—Billy Collins

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Poem: From a Park Bench

Poem: When I Am Asked

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