It’s kinda like a thumb on the king’s head, right on this busted notch in his crown, and my man across the board don’t say nothing, which I appreciate, you know, ’cause my hands been doing enough talking for everybody, shaking and sweating and smokin’ all broken and, and like, he’s on this little square of tinfoil deadass starin’ me down ’cause, bro, I know how to keep a bad game going, been doing that most my life, trading away good pieces for one more move, one more hour, one more chance to tell myself I’m still in it, and the fucked up thing is I can see a square for the king, maybe two, no way out but plenty of places to hide, and my thumb keeps rubbing that plastic while the clock knocks around in its guts, and I’m thinking how a man can starve himself on something that feeds him or how ain’t nobody can make you keep playing or how come nobody stops you neither, and then just a soft clack on the board with my hand shaking there a second, empty, where I can see it, ’cause it’s gonna be another long fucking night, man.