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Las Vegas, Age Fifteen
(National Open Chess Tournament)
I am the sound on the opposite side
the rhythmic thud on the hotel wall—
not lovers, or kids on the bed—I am
the head of a man just been beat
by some kid with a well-placed pawn.
I am the coach of the teen boy
who won. My marriage is sinking
like the desert sun. I have pinned
my pride to the felt underside
of a child's well-placed pawn.
I am the father who said, "Don't go,"
having suffered tournaments with wife
in tow, and unborn boy in utero.
I am the man when the boy was born who
uncurled his fingers and slipped in a pawn.
I am the cigarette girl with sequined
breasts, I live by good shoes and I die
when I rest. I am the slot machine's rolling
eyes, and I am the man in an Elvis disguise,
waltzing squares of carpet just like a pawn.
I am the boy in the bathroom stall, planning
moves on a tiled wall, unable, years later,
to step on a crack, I will stride the pavement
saying "white," saying "black," arranging
a perfect pattern for the unseen pawn.
