Chess

Wilson and Saylor,

a couple of farmboys

from the heartland,

hunch over a game

of chess set up

on a makeshift table;

- a footlocker

draped with a woolen

army blanket dotted

with cigarette burns

and the congealed wax

of many midnight candles.

Wilson moves a pawn

to queen four.

Saylor takes a swig

of Dr Pepper,

takes the pawn

with his bishop.

Wilson grunts and

swipes the bishop

with his knight.

Lizard sits up

from the bunk

where he’s been

relishing the rush

from the crystal

he shot up

five minutes ago.

Says, I got next game.

Saylor says, sure.

Why don’t you fix up

a bowl of that Afghani black

if you haven’t smoked it all up

already. Soon as I smoke

Wilson in this game.

You wish! Check!

Hey Lizard, you got

any Winstons? 

Nah, man, all I got

is Kools. Hash tastes

better with Kools.

Ok, gimme a Kool.

Where’s that bowl.

Your move, Saylor,

I said check.

Lizard breaks off

a chunk of hash,

spears it on a straightened

safety pin, roasts it carefully

with his Zippo.

squeezes out some shreds

of tobacco from a Kool

and mixes it with the hash.

C’mon Saylor, you ain’t

gettin’ any til

you make a move, man.

Saylor squints at the board,

moves his remaining bishop.

Wilson takes it with his queen.

Checkmate.

Hey Lizard, you’re up.

Nah, I changed my mind.

What about you, Chambers?

You wanna play?

No thanks, I’m going to

keep on reading.

What’s the book? Any good?

Yeah, “The Unnamable”,

but pass that bowl.

Saylor says, well

I’ll play another.