A short poem, 2013.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
A little boy sat on a bench in a park,
watching old men play their game.
One moved his piece,
they frowned and they slouched,
then the other accomplished the same.
The castles moved straight,
the horses made hooks
as the black and white shapes met their fate.
The boy slightly shifted,
his gaze never lifted,
as the sun slowly made her escape.
The men’s eyes creased wrinkles
as moves spotted became twinkles
and their hands became part of the pieces.
The boy closed his eyes,
looked up to the skies
and asked god why this game never ceases.
God gave its reply
in the form of a sigh
but the men and their game stayed the same.
The boy shook with cold,
looked back at the old
and decided that he would proclaim:
“I know I’m too young
for all of your fun
but it’s getting quite cold you see.
My mother is waiting
but I’m still debating
if this is the game for me.
I wanted to know
before I did grow
who would be left with his king.
So I’m asking quite nicely
if you’ll play concisely
and finish this game before spring.”
The men gave a chuckle,
one grabbed his buckle,
as the boy cocked his head to the side.
The old men gave advice,
hoping that would suffice
but the boy sauntered right up beside.
Without making a scene,
he reached for the Queen
and moved in a line that was straight.
The old eyes got wide,
the boy swelled with pride
as the man on the right cried,