Chess in the crack park

we walk by this park often, knowing we do not belong,
hoping to catch a glimpse of the garbage garage sales
or the zealous crack heads talking into a paper bag

we do this while walking quickly, as to not be affected
transformed into one of them by proximity
our watchful eyes taking in this other world

the most intriguing of things is the chess playing
old men lined up in a row like chess pieces
themselves, shrouded in a ring of blue smoke

the timers sits shyly on the table and makes the game
real, takes it away from the decay of this park
and the demise of this neighborhood and we are transported

to Washington Park and there are no crack heads
a young boy comes to play and his father watches
others arrive vying for a good table, pigeons scrambling

it is avant-garde and picture perfect
a painting in black and white
one to frame and hold hard and shining in your memory

abruptly the image vanishes as a shriek resounds and
a muffled laugh ensues as crack Mary runs to hide
still the old men playing chess never miss a beat