The Pool Hall

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Photo Credit: Patience

Nerves
standing on edge
as the car jerks
onto the road.
Alcoholic breath
floats from your mouth
as you round the corner and park.
We switch,
me behind the wheel
of your new car.
I take a picture first,
the one that adorns my wall
twelve years later.
I accelerate into twilight,
your words drifting
on the warm wind.
Bright lights blind me
in the dusk of the city
and then we’re in the smoky din,
pool balls striking,
cracking in the periphery.
You try to impress me
and I try not to be impressed.
Bob Marley’s three birds
fly into my ear
and hover in my heart.
Twelve years later,
they will freeze in a frame of ink
on my collarbone.
Later,
you kiss me in the dark,
my fingers
finding the freckles
on your chest
and committing them
to memory.
I can still feel your shape
under my hand
even twelve years later.

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