Troubles with Chess

Troubles with Chess

Sometimes I think the problem is that you can't decline to move.
There's this assumption that movement is progress
and that progress is good.
But if one side is on defense, having established a firm position
bunkered down behind a line of pawns,
to move is to weaken, and "progress" leads to death.

Sitting tight is the order of the day,
propped up in dunes, rifles at the almost-ready
defending the sea of glaring grains behind,
while it ungratefully insinuates itself
into our every orifice.

When we drop our pants, that orifice, too
is inundated. The reverse-tornado spirals up
through makeshift bathroom floors.
Cool tile but a memory to calloused feet
now used to sunburn and splinters.
Plumbing no more intricate than the shovel
propped at the door. Sign reads:
Cover your crap

Binoculars are raised more than rifles
though each bear witness to the scouring, wind-slung sand.
So, too, do our bodies, as micro-scratches on the glass
of lenses and scopes are mirrored in the angry redness
where the clothing slipped, and once breached,
rubbed raw against the skin.

We aren't police; every bullet does not require a signature,
paperwork filled out to reside in metal drawers
in case someone loses count.
No, we fire countless bullets. "Bet you can't hit that can,"
and four minutes later there is no can,
just a bunch of bored guys with sandy guns
that still shoot straight.

So here we sit,  shooting the shit,
And shooting at shit
And shitting in holes in the sand.