Metropolitan

In clusters of concrete, asphalt, and metal,
the masses sprawl out on terrantial landscapes
of manmade lawns and plastic gardens
Flesh and bones and thought populate,
racing, pushing forward,
but they’re anchored,
gathering dust.
Each one has the same checkerboard grid;
the pieces moving from spot to spot
and in between.
Their moves are already played out beforehand
by a black queen that devours and consumes
But there aren’t enough sectioned, empty lots
to fulfill her ravenous hunger.
And there aren’t enough standard, miserable lives
to quench that avid thirst.