Abandoned pool saloon

The Hot Shot pool saloon: a poem

 

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.

 

– NG

 

Where is the Hot Shot? 

 

 

 

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