Billiards

 

Or pool, as we called it:

sticks and stones. A scrum
of spheres explodes on a
Victorian green. Then all settles
into chalking the rapier,
surveying the solar system,
and hiring geometry to send
numbered balls to Hell.

Kisses and rails and playing it
safe. Running the table til the 8
of noir sits alone in bright light
like the planet Pluto. The loser-
to-be stands stoically. After

the stirring crack
of the break, my interest
always waned. Women
at the bar drew my focus
from English draw, banking,
and the sour spirit of incompetent
competition. A game for
aristocrats, with their cigars
and brandy, for me occurred
on warped tables in obscure
side-pockets of the American West.

I can't recall the best shot I ever
made, but I know it came from luck,
not skill. Years later, teaching
a class on the Harlem Renaissance,
I found Jacob Lawrence's rendering
of a pool room. More luck.

hans ostrom 2022

Closing Time

 

Tonight my cabaret of fears

glowed and hummed.

A band played anxiety

in sharp keys. We asked

the bartender to remove

his Death costume and put

away the scythe. Insulted,

he yelled, “Drink up, last call!”

A good time was not had by all.

hans ostrom 2022

Phone Nightspot

Weird night: went to this small
dark bistro, got inside--no one there
but a bartender texting on her phone.

The tables were empty except
for mobile phones, some propped,
some lying flat, two or three or

four per table.  One table had just
one phone--sad. I put my phone
on that table so the two could

get to know each other. Went
to the bar, ordered a bourbon,
and said to the woman,

"Start a tab, please, and I'm
buying a round for them all."
Her look soured. The phones

started to buzz, ring, sing,
jangle, and melodize. I said,
"Cheers," and lifted my glass.



hans ostrom 2017

"German bar," by Charles Bukowski