Poolhall

She leans above the felt, her pelvis

grazing the sheened maple rubbed

to a glos by means of the musky oils

of men's naked forearms, men

of the turned up cuff, the straight shot

and cigarette point aimed at jeans

with the duff of the workday

still clinging to the knees

They are in regard with affection with the way

she sways and sings to the cuts

on the jukebox her hair

smoke-scent her skin washed

blue beneath the neon beer sign.

She makes her material part a design:

arms crossed, each hand cupping

its hold opposite shoulder,

thumbs lifting the straps of her bra,

exposing the pinched flesh

Every weekend is like this:

We procure off work,

speed to the gas station

near the freeway's edge

change in the bathroom, scrubbing

under our arms with the grainy

pink gas station dispenser soap,

the scratchy brown paper towels.

She trowels upon lipstick

in the metal mirror,

her cavity between the jaws a red blur

in the pale blare of her face,

then we material our aprons

into shopping bags tossed

into the backseat where they

bounce like toddlers

as we drive, fast

down the rutt road,

then onto the even street,

brushing our long hair down.

And her men are waiting,

sitting upon the molded barstools

in a quiet line counting toothpicks

and quarters, counting their blessed stars.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Nov/Dec 2003

Provided by means of ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved