The Book of T.J.

Music and laughter in the distance
Hidden by a cloud of smoke.
Focused on the que-ball,
As you set up for your shot.
Your fingers grip the nylon,
As the stick takes rest on a familiar finger.
Back and forth, just two or three times,
As you say "8-ball, corner pocket."
You push the stick,
As if pushing through the ball.
It rolls slowly across the felt,
You have time to blink,
But only once.
As your eyes open,
Your target is hit,
With perfect accuracy.
Black sphere falls,
Slight popping noise echoes.
Joy wells within you,
As you take the time to exhale.
Pop,
Your que-ball follows it in.
You take another drag of your smoke,
And rack for another game.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 20 2009 and is filed under Poetry.