Even the
quarter machine is a
scumbag
at this hour
and will take
my nasty folded
dollar bills
without question.

And perhaps it was my
father's bad move when
he taught me how to
break cleanly
because I find myself
leaning over too many local
pool tables, lining up shots
and getting better with each
one I take and each
beer I drink on these
dirty Tuesday-Friday nights,
getting closer to a perfect game.

And I wipe the
nasty well whiskey out of my
stubbled beard with the
back of my wrist and
try to keep my hand
chalked and ready to shoot the
next game,
maybe for beers if that
works out but,
if not just line the shot with
my wonky eyes and
try not to
talk too much
shit.