Eight Ball
Eight Ball by Claudia Emerson 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.
Very nice. It portrays a very tender scene without being too sentimental. Enjoyed the internal rhyme, by the way…
I love the way you captured the ambience of a pool hall with very little description.