Playing pool in the basement late at night,
Alone, and I win every game.
Any missed shot and it’s still my turn,
“Great shot Brent, go again”.
Angles, momentum, spin and rebound,
Thinking a little ahead.
Chuckling as things go exactly as planned,
But then conversations come back in my head.
Heat upstairs to my cold below,
The creaking wide-plank floors above.
Sounds like a listing pirate ship,
After the wind has given a shove.
A hollowness to the voluminous space otherwise,
I question that I’m here for this course.
Alone in its belly for a time,
Only to soon be spit ashore.
In every room a ticking clock taunts,
Asking me to think and do immediately.
When did I slip from the digital age,
Where time went by with or without me.
No hands to say how far past things have gone,
Or that I’m half way to what is next.
Wondering why, and for how long,
My freedom to think is vexed.
Some things I do control,
Like my Viking cue at its perfect weight.
Linen wrapped and adorned in black,
The tip scuffed, chalked and perfectly shaped.
Its feel is slim, and light in my hands,
Silky smooth it follows through.
Working together as one sometimes,
Surprising what we can do.
Playing pool in the basement late at night sometimes,
I don’t want to win every game.
Missed a shot, and know just why?
Nobody but me to blame.
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Comments about this poem (Missed Shot by Brent Terry )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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