A Place Under the Bed

There was a place under the bed

for her bass guitar.

A place in Merian C. Cooper’s King Kong

to wonder about man’s tendencies to mistake

miracles for business ventures.

A place on the tip of her tongue

where kisses outwitted cigarettes.

More places on the chessboard

than there had been a few minutes ago.

There were wild,

open spaces between moves,

under lives,

beyond love.

An empty box for the cassette tape,

another for the two opposed armies.

There was something wrong

with the other box:

the heart-shaped one

that still held a few smashed, dark chocolates.

She put the television on mute,

and silent bi-planes filled the room.