your move

you listen
to his story as
he moves
checkers across
the board
in Washington
square.
he takes out
a white
handkerchief,
neatly
folded and ironed
and wipes his
brow. there was
this one time,
he says,
as he double
jumps
your kings, when
I was
married to velma.
a girl
from the Bronx,
and she hit
me with an
umbrella
right across
my head, here
look at the scar
if you don't
believe me,
and when you
look, he puts
another
checker onto
the board. why,
you ask, why
did she hit you.
I don't remember,
he says. who knows.
your move.