Pool Cue OdeAdam Deutsch
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.
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