Pawns

Over the board stands the father,
Turning on his children
With strong hands. The kids
Are tin and brass,
Instruments too precise
For sound. The terrific noise
Of checkers paves, by cracks,
The plane's unnecessary bounds.
Where will they move?
Not just among the squares,
Since even the surrounding air
Is shaped around their shape --
Their march must be a rule:
Their form contains their fate.