eight ball

you break, she
says, chalking her
stick, standing clear.
go ahead. you
start and so i
do. hitting
the tightly racked
pyramid of colored
balls right down
the center. they
scatter quickly,
with a bang,
rolling in every
direction, but into
a pocket. and she
smiles when
the mayhem stops,
lowers her gaze
at the sweet cherry
pickings i have
left her, but i
don't care. i'm
thinking of other
things, another
game altogether
as she leans against
the rail.