The letter slips to my lap,

a nearly forgotten map.


Where do the graphics direct?

The traces do not fear to select.


The countless unsuccess hours

in addition to the spent months in black.


The checkmate.


Down-to-earth sort of man slams,

the heat rises in the cheeks,

the dismissive slip of the tongue seeks.


Bit by bit, restlessly,

a tongue submits to say;

sorry, no worry.

No intention to hurt anyone including itself.


I do taste the promise of what life would be like,

in due time.