Poem #69: The Chess Players

The Chess Players

That, he said, is exactly what I expected.

From the kitchen there erupted a barrage 

of clamoring pots and cupboards slamming, 

until (after an eerily silent pause)

the door swung inward on its hinge,

propped open by a denim-clad hip.

The steaming platter of crisp-skinned 

chicken and oven-gilded parsnips, 

rutabagas, carrots and potatoes

landed in front of him with a clatter. Meanwhile the kids, wide-eyed 

but otherwise expressionless, looked

--first at one, then at the other--

as if following a chess game at the 

cracked concrete tables in the park, 

where frighteningly old men 

in sweat-darkened shirts smoked 

acrid cigars and rumbled 

their low, sordid laughter 

at incomprehensible jokes. 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Photo: Joye

Poem #69: The Chess Players