1.
I’m a game piece. Have been
forever, all the livelong day.
Body designed by compulsive Goof,
I move into spaces for moments
at a time, hurt or enjoy the time,
then move on.

I assume it’s not my place
to understand the Game,
for I don’t know
how to win,
how to play to a draw,
how to lose.

Someone else, 
the original Goof, gets
to know that. They will
shove me into a box and
walk away satisfied or not;
I’ll be in the dark even then.

2.
If it sounds like
I’m ceding my autonomy,
bemoaning my anatomy,

know that no part of me
indulges in hagiography
for myself or others. I did

hard damage here and own my 
long decay — but something put me
here and twisted me this way;

original Goof chasing laughs
or the joy of play, and as I said
I’m thinking I’m the game piece

who doesn’t get to know
how the Game ends,
or even how it does end.

3.
Rotten old songs stuck
in my head, all the livelong day.

Their baggage’s loaded in 
and I’m embarrassed that it won’t go away.

Lyrics in the background,
the Game and the moves right up front. 

I still see the Board as a playroom
where I’m too clumsy to use the toys

as intended. It hurts now more than it
pleases, but as I was never meant 

to be either Winner or Loser,
it does not matter.

Original Goof or whoever’s holding it,
won’t you blow

your horn? Fee fi fiddly,
pay me what I’m owed.  I’ve been

your gandy dancer long enough. 
I’m ready to take that bow.