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Sketch II
the old men
are sitting in the park
at two adjacent tables:
the first is writing
and the second
is playing a game of chess
against himself.
the first nearly breaks his
rusted nib
halfway through a crooked lovepoem
for the girl he met in Cincinatti
back in '67.
he'd planned on mailing it to her
but he spent
his stamp money
on whiskey
and pay-per-view
so this exercise
was futile.
he seemed to know this
the second
is no stranger
to these evenings:
he had never won
against
anyone but himself
in his
life.
As the queens
bow before their pawns
and the rooks
he realizes
that the soul
is
an unfillable glass.
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