[Note: "squawk" is also another name for a Yellow-crowned Night Heron.]
You're the judge of broken,
while the aging men are homeless,
as true Harlem kings are throneless,
and all's relative to the eldest generation.
There, they don't "play chess,"
their only subjects being trees;
they call it "Livin' in Deep wood."
And though perhaps they know the lesser limit of 'Get By,'
guaranteed – they've glimpsed an upper bound of freedom,
as one could dub these games "Talk through/amongst their liege;"
each move, their only trace—nah, score of lineage.
You're the judge of season
of these storms of deviation
over inlaid squares on a city block
—concrete like a capture only after it's had
...and with graffiti marking territory
in tacit urban words... like the scent of urine
to the build' of some dog;
but it's more a tattoo in its lasting,
and in that way, little less than suicide
—permanence noting a temporary mood.
The tempests' eyes circle in focus,
as though the queen's an ice cream truck,
her music – a solo over sirens... and other such caveats,
with little kids on fitting bikes being concentration
—of attention, as at that time they anticipate a sign from her eminent direction,
her worth being the taste of a puddin'-pop.
And it comes in the form of a squawk,
a glare in their thought signifying the initiation of action,
maybe as with a woman with something of yellow in her hair.
It is a woman; and he need not say but move her,
while drawn onlookers find some charm
...with no luck
and crowns resigned to a test where none is needed.