Carold Raisfeld
8-Ball, Corner Pocket
My friend frequents a place where she has an afternoon snack and relaxes. A place where no one interrupts her thoughts to talk about “needing to write.” Out and about on a warm, humid day, she suggests we stop there for a drink. I feel quite comfortable in the cool air of the pool hall as we chat over her gin & tonic and my ginger ale. I enjoy the ambience of indifferent chain-smoking waitresses without the usual battery of talkative waiters named Oliver.
daily bread
picked up at the bakery
for dinner
at work early, she calls
to check on the hubby
On the big-screen TV a football game in the third quarter, the sound softer than I would expect. Something exciting must have happened, as an energy spark seems to bounce from face to face in a joyful link of circuitry. Suddenly some unexplained burps envelop the tattooed, tee-shirted viewers.
Perhaps the pool hall is an arena of Spartan hardness in which one must prove oneself. They exchange their manhood weekend outings between hitting the eight ball and slugs of beer. As we walk out the door, I hear the never ending call of “rack ‘em up” and the crack of balls breaking.
on a hot day
so many things to do
cat in the tree
shopping for groceries
and mowing the lawn
About the Author
Carol Raisfeld lives in Atlantic Beach, New York. The winner of international awards and an anthologized poet, her art and photography appear worldwide in print and online journals.