home » Son and Foe Magazine » Issue Three » Eight Ball

 

Eight Ball
It was fifty cents a game
beneath exhausted ceiling fans,
the smoke’s old spiral. Hooded lights
burned distant, dull. I was tired, but you
insisted on one more, so I chalked
the cue–the bored blue–broke, scratched.
It was always possible
for you to run the table, leave me
nothing. But I recall the easy
shot you missed, and then the way
we both studied, circling–keeping
what you had left me between us.