BB Grey–musings

From a Rust Belt Worker to the President

Sir—do you play chess?
Ever checkmate a Russian?
(I hear they’re good.)
Or that young kid Fischer
in some pre-arranged
Elon-made Grok stew?

Was Magnus tough?
Did you unbox him
like flat-pack furniture—
extra screws left over?
(I know IKEA’s Swedish,
but you get my meaning.)

Did Big Blue fold
when you played “bigly”?
Your Cupertino pals—
they set the board, right?
Pawns in place,
kings in the wings?

I ask because
the plant’s whistle blows
for empty lockers now.
My 401(k)’s halved,
my belt’s on its last notch,
and the rust—
well, it still rusts.

Chess matches end.
Clocks run out.
Win, lose, or resign.
So tell me:
Are you winning?
Losing time?
Or just… losing?

I’ve watched your game
from the gallery—
that hushed tension
like a putting green
where hundreds hold their breath
as the ball teeters
on the lip of the cup.

Do you trade pieces
or march your king forward?
Hide behind pawns,
praying for queens?
Castle at the last second,
flip the board,
or pull some 15-move scheme
from Mar-a-Lago’s golden drawers?

I want to believe.
But the clock’s ticking
louder here in the Belt—
where the kids can’t catch a break,
and the only “check” we get
bounces.

You waited four years
to make your move.
I get that.
But out here,
we’re down to our last pawns.

So, Mr. Trump—
really—
do you play chess?

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