Old men in checkered shirts
and
khaki trousers with winding creases
sit
on stone benches in the park.|
Arthritic
fingers—the instruments
of
mortal gods fighting anachronism—
swap
knights, bishops, and pawns.
The
October day is chilly and gray,
an
opening move to clouded sunset
wider
than eighty-year-old yawns.
Up
and down the line of speculation
there
are mates and checkmates,
coughing
laughter beneath cataracts
among
old friends and warriors
talking
about queens, their wives
who
fell to the board because of age
that
even a Russian gambit couldn’t save.
It
is hard to distinguish thumbs
from
the knuckles and knots of bare trees
grabbing
for the curtain of evening
that
will sweep away kings and royal pleas.
Soon
the day will fade to black,
and
the sky, or time itself,
unwinding
all of the game clocks,
will
checkmate empty pants and shirts.
~William Hammett
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