Pool Hall Girls
Two blocks back of a mangy main drag,
a squat lumbered haunch pothole roof flat stomp
steadies where jukebox jezzies do green felt passion
and hair rock glass ash cigs, beer root snappes plunge
shots in draft mugs down, suds lump . . .
“Woo! Check out the workin’ C plumage”:
Concert t’s, blouses rung laundro tight;
pedal skin slayed of denim beast, and stitch
goes its wavy caress
past buxom black bras wound, tugged with all-a-might.
Mary K-n-avon teases—all those prim priss bitches,
hold no toe to Clydesdale countesses.
Chalk, grip sticks hard, rack ‘em, bust balls—
your dates are tough mama’s boys—the age of
bastards eighted; Love’s an angled game
too—six pockets’ haven. You take their qualms
of no pleasure, and men growl at cuff hand off calls . . .
‘Get over here babey! Let’s cue up and do it again!’