Monday, September 02, 2002

I see them at the

I see them at the boards
precarous on stolen milkcrates
hunkered down on plastic buckets
children feigning drowning upwards
but the players’ eyes don’t blink
they’re watching every piece before them
remembering the way it started
seeing ten moves in the future
fingers grimy as a busstop
plastic pawns and rooks and mules
roughened by unnumbered thrashings
sweat and hunger their patina
but the players do not see this
they are looking past the pieces
thinking on the logic of it
where the dirt can find no purchase
on abstracted things of theory
fill the mind with cleansing purpose
each according to its function
all aligned in the fulfillment
of a plan that cannot fail
reaching out beyond the confines
of the tattered manichean
boards that shudder in the traffic
furtive money changing hands
a torch against a glassy tube
I nearly smell them with my eyes
but they don’t bother with the odor
they are living in those chessboards
maybe it’s a game to you
to them it seems the only place
where they can live in cleanliness
controlling what the future brings
and even when they lose the game
there is a victory in that