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Poem

No one questioned her presence
she was conditioned to think that she
could walk amongst Gods
she was no godd-Ess
amongst the god-Less
 
she pulled the doors of the bar towards her
the neatly, handwritten sign read: “closed”

But “she” was welcome.
she gazed at the fine spirits
they were
organized on the opaque wall
with an obsessive preciseness 
she made her way from the doorway
and jumped 
In.
Cold.
Calculated.
 
the men gathered around the pool table
drew her attention
like a gypsy string
 
a knot formed…
 
While records spun
Spun.
……………………they spun:
Miles and Miles of *****es brew,
Frank’s state of mind,
and Cash’s blues.
 
she wanted in the game.
8-ball
the stakes were clearly pronounced
and sanctified 
by a shot of her preference
 
We played.
she lost.
I played well.
 
the senses of that evening
faded throughout time
the imagery had fallen from her
like dead things
 
her heartbreak continued long after we met
 
but we play for keeps there
and it was rightfully mine
for months my chaser
was in the form of genuine tears
out of a lipstick-smudged-chipped glass
 
we play for keeps here 
amongst the god-Less
the sign never changes
and “she” never wins
 
it is a refined 8-ball game
within four heavy walls
where the only portrait of a female
hangs above the bathroom the urinal---
amidst the cocaine residue--A picture of Venus herself---
 
and we all wait for her to walk through 
those doors---to ignore that sign---
for that 8-ball game to begin.
for me to lose.

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