Concrete Chessboard

[couchgrouch]

Concrete ChessboardBen got off the crosstown, found that bench in the parktook the pieces from his pocket, set up while waiting on TomTom'd bring the breadcrumbs, those pigeons were faithful friendshe loved them like the grandkids, who never spent time with himand Tom rarely lost a chessmatch, he useta be a champlearned to play from Russians, in a German prison campsacrifices and surrender, life is much the samethey'd sit by the old park fountain, passing time with gameson the concrete chessboard, painted on a picnic tablebottlecaps for bishops, that's all they could afforddying cottonwood for shade, leaves fell on each game they playedon the concrete chessboardTom had a pushbroom moustache, Ben had hair in his big earsshouting till their voices were shot, cos they couldn't hearthey'd argue who was tougher, soldiers or Marinesand whose fatigues after battle, were a redder shade of greenbut for all their fighting, their friendship was sweet and sadthey were the only comp'ny, that each other hadTom lived with his rich son, in a lonely add-on roomBen's fixed income left him broke, so they both looked forward tothe concrete chessboard, painted on a picnic tablebottlecaps for bishops, that's all they could afforddying cottonwood for shade, leaves fell on each game they playedon the concrete chessboardBen waited there for hours, staring at those pawnswhile the hands of time played games, till the pieces were gonelast month he captured Tom's queen, in just a few movesTom seemed to stare at nothing, it wasn't like him to losenow a few hungry pigeons, gathered at Ben's feetbut he had nothing for them, his own life had lost its seedshe fished change from the fountain, for bus fare home that daywhile Tom sat in a rest home, his mem'ries slipping awayof the concrete chessboard, painted on a picnic tablethe use bottlecaps for bishops, that's all they can afforddying cottonwood for shade, leaves fell on each game they playedon the concrete chessboard(c)2005 Robert George