Television on sports channels, no sound.
Staccato clack of balls into pockets;
pool sticks in the rack.
pool sticks in the rack.
Neon promo lights flicker in
and out like ominous stars.
and out like ominous stars.
Soon the scales will tip again.
I will double check the numbers.
Soon the scales will empty into glass;
I will emerge, all the dumber.
Consuming; perfuming.
Is it Joe the Plumber or
the promise of perpetual summer
that shirks my to-do lists and stunts
my growth as potential up-and-comer?
Boy howdy, I tell ya.
It’s no wonder that my brain insists
on shackles round ankles and wrists.
Upward mobility, in this bar, does not exist.
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