Schachspielers

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In the square outside Freiheit street number sixteen,

in the world above U-Bahn commuters, there meet

the Schachspielers.

Some say, in fact, they never leave,

but boiled kneecaps and brittle bones

once buried in the cheap concrete

now rise daily to enthrone two kings.

Gnarled they are in build and limp,

each man’s spine a humped back bridge

in dated shirts that no longer fit but ripple

in the rumble of the underground

beneath.

Shuffling over the arrival of the 6:33,

Tuesday’s chosen enthroned ones, assemble armies:

a wooden bishop with a chip on his shoulder,

a pawn with a bash on the head waits for orders

as spectators sit.

Now player one was once a handsome man—

six feet in height with a healthy tan,

but his skin the wind, and rain’s pulled down

like candle wax. On his finger sags

a cigarette butt.

On the opposite side of the chequered battleground,

playing black, player two’s a used tissue kinda man

with a scrunched-up face and ferocious brows

that quiver as he thinks.

The game begins

with the movement of his feet — two leather slippers

thoughtfully complete the ruler length

to his kingside pawn three.

In the time it takes to bend his knees

and tune his vertebrae in squeaks,

the U6 bursts its banks 

and spills commuters up the ramps,

their fingers flashing, tapping, Google Map-bashing,

speed walking, text-talking, Whats-app-apping

or they’re Snapchatting, networking, Insta-picture-filter-picking,

ghosting or they’re roasting someone, swiping left or right in tandem

facelessly Face Timing, Facebooking, Face-swapping fucking Amazon-ing

and it’s all gone

in the time it takes player two to straighten up.

Not hook-up, book a check-up, skype a break-up, apply make-up

just straighten up.

The streets hush. 

Player one’s back cracks as he breaks ranks

to let the queen through, coughs twice,

adjusts his tie and recedes

in a puff of smoke.