Remember, Hot Shot? You dropped in one night
The day she left you. Played a frame or two
Against a kid with acne and a sneer
Who kicked your arse. You kicked his too,
Later, in the car park. Swigged a cask
And staggered home to where she wasn’t. Now,
The players are ghosts. Shades stalk and chalk their cues.
You knock but no one’s there. The owners left
The day they cut the power off.
Unpaid bills spill underneath the door
Of the cafe where the coffee’s always cold,
The tables where the shots rebound like hope.
Doesn’t it say, You’ll aim but always miss,
Your pockets empty? She’s with someone else.
The hot shot’s days are over. You’ll rebuild,
You say, and start again. The place spits No
Through broken teeth. Lie down in Buckley Street
And howl up at the cue ball of the moon.
Crikey, Nick, how long you been writing this kind of poetry? Good stuff: ‘where the shots rebound like hope’.
Thanks Vin – something about the game of pool evokes a sense of despair for me – especially the way I play it. The metaphors came easily!