History,
my boys,
is a horse
and plow,
and we
are the dirty clods.
Can’t you
just hear that
coming out
of the mouth
of a road tired-Pentecostal
old Joe
sliding the
checker
one square
at a time,
slide,
slide…
no one beats
his game
or
philosophy.
You know, I
haven’t seen him
since those
kids…
Some have
watched him walk
out the
road, that board tucked under
his arm,
sliding his feet
as though
they were
those
checkers
pockets
stuffed
with them wood
plugs
blond and
black—he made ‘em
himself. That board too.
Polishes ‘em.
Or used to.
That’s what
he was doing,
waiting for
the picnickers
to get back
rubbing them
blond ones
because
that’s what she said she’d be
and
she’d beat him this time
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