corner pocket, corner pocket, corner pocket, i called it.

               this game of 9 ball started in mid-March, that was the break. the thunderbolt, sledge hammer that shattered the rack, dissolved the pact, sent numbers spinning.

               and i blinked, missing the moment where the 1 got away, a sly ghost-out into the side.

but it meant fine, keep going. 

April left me blue on the 2, bent low for the stroke, looking to sink, take that drink and the game began to take on true form, and April was pocketed.

stuck face to face with the 3. a shot that would have required a kiss, but now it was May. so i pictured the leave, where’s the cueball going to rest once this month is sunk and Jazz Fest packs up, leaving irrational garbage to remind the streets that there was an excuse for everything, so sink the red and then

June. the 4. happy purple birthday to Kiki. there was more than enough sideways spin, navigating the ball past the 5, moving onto July, an orange, western sun saying goodbye, direct shot to the top left.

August got the 6 going, green with envy that a wine stained 7, known as September, got taken care of with one stroke, and there was the slightest bounce off the cushions, late nights with a new friend taking us to the 8, black skies arriving with earlier consistency, October memories of a coming attraction, and there was so little left to fight through, November, number 9, alone on a felt-scented mesa, staring up at me with all the warning signs of a yellow stripe against white, and once she was out of the way, corner pocket, corner pocket, corner pocket i called it

and it took all of December to realize the game was over. i ran the table, and no longer knowing what a win looks like anymore, it was Kiki who removed the weapon from my hand, set it aside and smiled.

“let’s go home.”

we found ourselves back on the 31^st, and outside the window, overlooking New Orleans, the fireworks returned to remind me. distant sounds of yellow,

blue,

red,

purple,

orange,

green,

               burgundy,

               against a black sky asking if maybe we couldn’t take tonight and turn it into an actual streak.

# # #

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so long and thanks for all the pish.