But Is It Art?
Megan Fox
Poetic analysis is two crusty old men bickering over
a chipped, well-worn chess table in a park
frequented only by the dead and dying.
The morning coffee stands at the right hand
of Gods opposed, ready to awaken the muses of the day
or to douse the cult of the Other in milk with two sugars
in a last, desperate strike of limp impotency.
“Rook to King four. Pawn takes Queen with a roundhouse kick.”
“What!? Rooks can’t roundhouse kick, they’re Castles!”
“No, they’re Ninjas. Also, my pawn sneaks behind enemy
lines and plants dynamite. I get another turn.”
“You’ll have no such thing! Besides, my King’s spy satellites
fried your pawn with a laser!”
“From hell’s heart I stab at thee!” then screams the one,
dousing the other in a café mocha with a twist.
But they’re still thirsty, and for now, couldn’t
drink even if they were gifted coffee by some benevolent passer-by.
It wouldn’t be their brand.
Wars can not be fought by opponents playing different games,
where the only common ground is drenched with steaming brew dripping
from the toothless mouths of gray old generals.
The park closes in an hour, but they’re back bright every morning after,
fresh coffee in hand,
ready for their game.
