He had something to prove around that pool table;
there was a marriage at stake.
Outside under the heat lamp on the twelfth floor, he stated,
‘I socially smoke, but I’m trying to stamp it out’
and she looked at him as he were at her:
lying through every thread they had on.
A look glanced over and off the rim of his pint glass into a stare of,
before too long we’ll be draped upon the bed sheets like a Dali clock watching for morning to come.
She’d legs of chopsticks that picked their way through the crowds
and he an arse that hung stiff in the seat of his pants,
loud rectangular pockets paying eyes to try and keep up,
and they walked back in like a first year film festival in a two horse town.
Above the table they potted the last eight balls down to the cue,
then left the bar to buy a wedding gown and a real New Yorker's suit.