A chess game lies in progress between them.
None of the pieces have been moved for hours.
The men sit perfectly still in their seats.
Pigeons land on their heads from time to time.
A crowd has gathered around the two,
hoping for a sneeze, a cough, a clearing
in the throat – anything to break the spell
of this living breathing still life pose.
The glimmer of a blink cannot be seen.
No finger scratches at a nose or leg.
The only movement is the fanning wind
blowing through their hair, rustling their clothes.
The crowd disperses, bored after a while.
The men rise up in unison as if
a bell has tolled that only they can hear.
Gracefully they bow to one another, and
linking arms, silently, they walk away.
The Long Islander’s Walt’s Corner
July 2019