His fat hand hovers over the queen
and it reminds me of the glassed-in skill crane
tucked neatly to the right of the front door

'terrific'
his adjectives are rubbed and worn
they remind me of rusted out carnival rides
tired top-hats and frayed white gloves

'fantastic'
He saves them for good moments
but spends them without style

they play blue collar chess
working hard and risking little
it is defensive
tight and calloused
swinging in small king-centered circles
leading queens and dropping occasional pawns

The third man, in grey, lifts his head when the music starts
and moves with a simple rhythm
watching himself in the window

When it ends
it is blunt
uncomplicated
without genius or inspiration
rather the sum of all parts and decisions
a completion
it is the last movement of the piece
another breath of the machine

They collect the pieces into piles
and resume their coffee
and conversation

AcB 11.24.01