It’s heavy with the smell
of rain and Seven & Seven.
One old woman
and twelve loud mouthed men
argue over who has
more baseball in their blood.
Duct tape holds the corner
of the pool triangle
hanging from a deer antler on the wall
above the green, pock-riddled table
silent and still as a fabled pond.
A girl nobody knows rushes in
with her coat over her head
and gets change from the bartender.
It’s hard to tell if she’s crying
or just wet from the rain.
Twenty eight frog eyes
follow her back to the pay phone.
A cue stick leans against a chair
pointing at the naked woman
on the poster on the ceiling, a slow rain
mark seeping through her.