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.

by Claudia Emerson

Other poems of EMERSON (45)

Comments (1)

Really enjoyed this one.