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.