Pool Cue Ode

Fixed on my left hand’s radius side, the V
made by the index and thumb there’s not a word for,
a kind of trough, chalked, powdered in hue I only wish
closer matched my pants so I could stay dusted
clean while guiding you who is easily the most trustworthy
go-to bar brawl companion, next to a not-yet-broken
long neck bottle I’ve never had to turn to. But I say
let’s not fight. Let’s, the two of us, relax into the break.
Let’s avoid the bridge. I finally place you back up on the wall
but would prefer, instead, walk you down the back stairs,
return you to your natural state in the nearest patch of grass,
plant you butt down into the dirt, a fresh lighting rod sapling
of linear option, probability, and precision called cynosure.
A precise tapered dowel, I know you’re constructed
with impact in mind, lacquer soaked and quality
tested. That’s why I’d reposition you out in the wilderness,
rooted by your girthiest spot and pointing high
straight towards storm formations from where snakes
plummet straight down, fangs first the scaled bodies
to be threaded to the tail by your dime-over-nickel
leather topped ferrule. Only thing is, I need you in here
where I’m lining up other events that click, bank,
sink or gradually come to a stop in the middle of nowhere
vaguely considered a defensive position.
I had a table and all sorts of practice
when I was a shaver sitting around dingier spaces.
Help me keep the table, stack of quarters, rack
after rack and I’ll know it’s all my fault if we scratch.