by Sean Dunn

T-shirts fold into abdomens,
Disco balls hold the light’s glare
While the reggaeton threads
Bar stools seams stitching the bar,
Here, it is pool night,
Though the men don’t say it,
Just make terse circles
Around the table
Seemingly endlessly
Not one speaking to the other
And each knowing, somehow,
Not to, that it won’t matter.
Boise, Idaho true blue,
Cool coins hard as thumbs
Slipping into slots
Like discs in your back,
A table is for a body.
Balls breaking like bones,
An eight ball kills you, come here
Between shots, hear the village elder
Whisper words of backspin
In your ear above the jukebox
Blare of Bon Jovi, stop –
Operating bodies on tables,
A triangular diaphragm framing
The game like an X-ray,
You follow the shot through always
Like the the old man said,
Flat back, straight through,
The billiard cue
An extension of you
Floating for a moment
As the break disperses
Across the surface,
The game is still