Tavern Smoke

neighborhood
bar, pool tables filled
eight guys down

balls click under low
hanging beer lights, over
pitchers poured, solid mugs

wife beater
shirt, tatoos gang chain
lock on chest

he talks, shouts, gets loud
“Fuck. We’ll clear the house -- You and
Me -- Nobody left.”

dark hair shaved close
impossible to grab, struts
just out of jail freedom

his gang in corner
back you up, words loud enough,
heard, not acknowledged

Dale’s & my table
next to theirs, the dog example --
clear out before . . .

“knock heads, pool cues. Bash!
Shit, pick your table” threatening,
joking, serious.

unsteady
beer in my hand, vein
in my neck

white cue ball
solids or stripes, think
concentrate

blue pock marks
chalked tips “I’ll fist fight
anyone.”

strolls, jacks off
his cue between his
legs, struts, waits

no response, bar un-
easily ignoring the open
threat, his gang

sharing one
table, wanting
territory

flexed, asks me,
directly, “You guys
having fun?”

(muic stops
vision narrows, balls
skid on felt)

“Yeah, we are.
Are you having fun?”
“Yeah we are.”

laughs. posed, “We
aren’t distracting you
guys, are we?”

“No.” I walk straight to
him, poised, about to break,
dragging my stick in hand.
.
I ask, “Are
we distracting you?”
“No.” He says.

“Are you sure?”
“No,” he says again,
“you’re not.” breaks.

hear his boy to another
shit, i never
Dale & I last ones out