Pool Hall

Here’s a poem I wrote back in September ’12,  about three months after my escapade with “The Mountie”.

Pool Hall

Crack.
Balls scatter. Solid, left pocket.
Change of hands, stick
glides across the table
tan on felt

slick on stiff

my snug skirt slips and

all eyes on that space

inches from the edge
the tipping point
a slight nudge/an intake of breath,
in the right direction,

with the weight of force,

and the ball drops

your turn.

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