Kings

He’s nearly 80.
I’m 9.

Black or red, he asks.
His foot tapping to the Six Fat Dutchmen
oom-pahing from the old tabletop radio.
Go ahead, he says.
Feeding tobacco from his Prince Albert tin
into the mouth of his pipe.
I advance.
He flares a match. Sucks his pipe to life.
The smoke so sweet.
He moves. I move. He moves. I move,
his bony fingers drumming, drumming—
Pots clattering in the kitchen.
She shouts over our music. Czech words.
He sighs. Turns down the radio.
Jump-jump-jump. He winks. Drums.
My finger lowers to one of my survivors.
Do you want to do that, he asks.
Halos of smoke above us.
Their mantel clock warning almost time to go home.
My men disappear by ones, by twos...
King me, he says.
She looks in on us. Dost!
Where’s your move, he asks.
His eyebrows like fuzzy caterpillars.
She enters with kolaches and milk.
Good game. His hand patting my shoulder.
We dunk our kolaches.
So good.

I’m nearly 80.
Grandson just turned 10.