Pool at the St. James

Whenever I play pool in a crowded bar,
I think of Donald in Mathmatics Land,
and its candy colored characters. I try to see

the dotted lines, the right angles.
They obviously come naturally
to you, a red striped ball tips

into a side pocket; the one
with a yellow stripe falls into a corner.
I have to laugh at the way you try

to encourage me. The green felt is dotted
with green, blue, solid spots. I’m drunk

and leaning against the table as I try to align
the blue tipped cue to the white dot.
The motion on the table blends ball

into ball, solid matter turning into sound
and color. Those right angles, Donald Duck’s

scratchy voice. You thought I could do it,
and I love to try when I know I will fail.

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