The Hustler 

                            Down in a dank

                                               cellar where all

                                                            the cues are warped

                                    I choose the best

                                                with care,

                                                            chalk it, and set

                                    my cigarette flat

                                                on the table's edge.

                                                            I rack up the balls

                                    in a tight, bright triangle

                                                and break them with

                                                            a sharp splat, skitter-

                                    scattering them in all

                                                directions over the green

                                                            felt table.  Nothing

                                    drops.  I circle the felt

                                                like a stalking cat, find

                                                            my spot, and crouch squinting

                                    for the kill.  A flick

                                                of my stick

                                                            and the six ball ducks

                                    into the corner pocket.

                                                My next five shots are

                                                            snooker perfect.  A hustler

                                    I am on top

                                                of this table.

                                                            I am the table,

                                    the balls, the cue.

                                                The game

                                                            is all in your mind.

                                    Then my luck runs out.  I flub

                                                a simple shot, so I try

                                                            a chancy combination

                                    although there is

                                                no one here

                                                            but me, and I

                                    miss badly, leaving

                                                no good angles.  I curse

                                                            comprehensively.

                                    I can't even sink

                                                a straight-on shot.

                                                            The world is absurd.

                                    We are all idiot balls

                                                clicking our way into

                                                            empty black pockets.

                                    We kiss and crack

                                                at random, hitting - missing

                                                            is all the same.

                                    We reel from wall

                                                to wall and laugh

                                                            at our drunken

                                    gestures.  To shoot

                                                or not to shoot, to clear

                                                            the table or to leave it

                                    as it stands, makes

                                                no difference.  I shrug,

                                                            chalk my cue,

                                    and play the game out.