Billiards

 

Or pool, as we called it:

sticks and stones. A scrum
of spheres explodes on a
Victorian green. Then all settles
into chalking the rapier,
surveying the solar system,
and hiring geometry to send
numbered balls to Hell.

Kisses and rails and playing it
safe. Running the table til the 8
of noir sits alone in bright light
like the planet Pluto. The loser-
to-be stands stoically. After

the stirring crack
of the break, my interest
always waned. Women
at the bar drew my focus
from English draw, banking,
and the sour spirit of incompetent
competition. A game for
aristocrats, with their cigars
and brandy, for me occurred
on warped tables in obscure
side-pockets of the American West.

I can't recall the best shot I ever
made, but I know it came from luck,
not skill. Years later, teaching
a class on the Harlem Renaissance,
I found Jacob Lawrence's rendering
of a pool room. More luck.

hans ostrom 2022

"She's Checking," by Hans Ostrom

in the Parkway Tavern, Tacoma,
i'd been drinking lemonade
for a half-hour or so.

a different waitress
came to the table. i
wondered if waitresses
and waiters like
to be called servers
now or not. i kept
this question to myself.

anyway, she said,
"what are you drinking?"
i said, "lemonade."
she said, "we don't have
lemonade." i said,
"i have been drinking
lemonade." she said,
"well, i'll check."



hans ostrom