At  Jimmy’s

I

That sideways man with a pool cue

in a long black leather bag

limps to his advantage;

he is rhythmic and cool.

He is famous among the weed smokers,

bums picking up cigarette stubs,

and cooks on break.

He stutters until he racks the balls--

Then the regulars turn around.

Old welders, retired military,

and seasoned men with ball caps

worn forward with bills over their eyes:

They all

sigh.

He is suddenly so smooth.

Some part of his brain was injured,

but not the part where the game

is playing,

not the part that dances.

II

The bar pro   

makes the balls

break apart 

like a flock of bright birds.

The green table is his garden.

The fluorescent light is his moon.

His boys lean

into the shadows.

Dressed in a suit jacket

like a gangster,

iridescent in blues and greens,

He moves in like a night snake.

When he strikes.

the flock

takes sudden wing.

III

A dark haired married woman,

still pretty at fifty

stops by Jimmy’s

to score an bag of weed.

If her husband knew

 the marijuana makes her sweet

and fleshy,

he’d let her go;

he remembers this:

as a girl she was beautiful.

Sometimes she turns her head,

and a lovely  ghost

Inhabits her.

If her husband could accept it,

he adores her when she’s high;

she gets that tender,

wraith-like  look.