Down At Old Sharpie’s

On a green velvet cloth table rubbed

with cue faded blue dust blown off the

tips of little square cubes held between

finger tips able and yearning to aim true

He bought his first cue from a local

pawnshop when money was tight it

was stained blood red from a fight one

night when it came crashing down on

the head of a hustler who lost the fight

for his life outside old Sharpie’s pool hall

Hanging out at old Sharpie’s place where

smokey talk and coca cola sat beside him

he leaned over a table to take the shot

with an eagle sharp eye scoping down

his prized cue twisting in sweating palms

aiming and waiting for the first shot

Laying his fag on the polished edge where

scorched and burned mahogany shone

of better days and smoky rings whiffed

up to a ceiling where cheering cockroaches

hung out to play and watch a boy line

up his shot the first of the day

He knew the cheap tricks and smack talk

to pick a pocket clean and leave them scratching

and wondering how this kid

dropped his balls so cleanly

Hustling like a pro never getting enough

of cutting a ball with a new technique moving

straight as an arrow gliding for the kill he woud

watch that ball rolling so well go “whoosh” as it fell

into a web laced leather pocket embracing it so

From the corner of his eye watching broken men

with toothless old grins and nicotine finger tips clutching

their butts and swigging their gin from brown

paper bags playing craps under wobbly legged

tucked away tables when a boy burst in and yelled

Mama is alone and wants you at home

to one of the gin filled men

So snooker was his game and he took aim

to leave a school to lay some odds against himself

and hoped that he could make a mark far

beyond the dark and dingy smoke filled hall

where shots were heard and kept calling

him down to old Sharpie’s pool hall