He brushed his hat like a butler might
before placing it on his shaven head.
The jersey that once hung
like a sack from his shoulders,
oversized jeans, brand-name sneakers,
replaced by a button-down shirt,
pleated pants, mid-priced loafers.
It’s a two hour drive to town
where he grew up stuffing sandwich bags
with black and red discs into his pockets,
carrying an 8x8 grid folded in half
to the biggest tree in the park,
playing checkers with his dad
he would abandon first
for frat houses, dreaded hair,
pre-professional tests;
then bids,
licenses,
contracts,
twenty minutes to dart ‘cross town,
twenty minutes before the older man
will pull a red stool to the table
move one black piece forward.