Shark
He's part of a world of smoke,
of black linoleum
of green felt table tops.
He's all at once the
hiss and click of balls
colliding and the smooth
soot of blue chalk.
Perhaps it's the fluorescent lights
that cast a pale glow
about his soft face
and dark, warm eyes.
Or perhaps he is
so fair as smoke and
recycled light make him out to be.
One thing is certain:
He hasn't made a good shot
in three turns and pretends
not to be just the slightest
bit upset.
He leans against the cool
black brick, a cigarette
between the tips of his fingers,
smoke curling up languidly
in his thoughtful brown eyes
and over knit brow.
He, with his open face,
and honest eyes, is in
every way a mystery.
With his black beatnik hat,
long and lean distressed
black jeans and dark French grey
turtleneck sweater.
He steps up to take a shot,
leans over the table, hooking
one toe on the smooth floor
as he slides the cue
between the bones
of his splayed fingers.
One slow practice shot,
and another. This might
be his best tonight.
Eight ball, left corner pocket
and that familiar click.
Eyes follow the ball, in every
way hopeful and a slow
smile breaks across his lips
as the ball drops into the pocket
with a comforting thud.
The cue ball rolls after and joins
the black ball at the bottom
of the pocket and the smile falls
from his face in utter disbelief.
He slumps back on his heels,
looking toward the stucco ceiling
eyes pleading with the pool hall
gods to grant him any break at all.
"I know, I know. ’Rack 'em up, bitch!' right?"
he says resignedly, though the
wicked glint in his eyes doesn't
match his tone as he switches
solids and stripes in the plastic triangle.
He takes another drag on his cigarette,
and exhales slowly as he hooks the
triangle below the table and the thoughtfulness
returns to his eyes as the smoke
drifts and dissipates, tangling
in his dark hair and darker eyes.
