When I was 17 years old
I met a woman in a hospital room
who told me she’d played pool
with Minnesota Fats. She told me
about her ties to the mafia & how I had
to stay alive so I could wander down New York
streets that I now feel guilty for forgetting.
I never forgot her, or her son, who had once
played with Earth, Wind & Fire. Her son approached
me at the mall – happy to see me alive; his mother had
not been so lucky.
Now I sit at pool tables with a drink, watching others
play what the hospital woman once told me was a wonderful
way to unwind; a way to forget & remember & lose yourself
with no need of drugs, razors, or even friends. I sit here
& watch the players & have my drink, as I unwind & forget
& remember the woman & her last breath of kindness.
Here where the sharks are people of every smile &
shade of sorrow, I observe & am grateful to be alive &
to witness what no one else can understand about the bald
goth boy in the corner who smiles at the actions of strangers;
not for the sharks themselves, though they do amuse me,
but the game itself. It’s beautiful really.
Only last night I watched a great white demon
of a man… a shark with the face of a god, who was
stone cold seriousness while aiming for a shot… You
should have seen this slip of perfection animating around
the table – with nothing but the outcome in mind. In between
shots he was all candy laughter smiles & warm blooded affections.
He said I was: Cute. Deep. Intriguing. Weird was good.
Of course people come looking for sharks here all the time;
they come to capture, ensnare; be devoured…
the sharks know this and are not impressed.
Maybe I’m a mystery to them because I’m not swimming
in these waters out of lust, boredom or hunger…
I’m simply swimming in the deep end of an ocean,
admiring something about sharks that no one can touch.
The momentous emotions that pass
between unblinking eyes
& unflinching hands;
between moisture flecked lips
& steadfast dancers legs.
A swipe of tongue…
A flicker…
A breath…
The glint of light overhead on numbered spheres as they
clash, glimmer, escape solidarity –
through the single deadly thrust of
the pool shark’s decisive wooden lance.
The ghost of a shark lady smiles every time that they play
& then I can smile too, while remembering her with me – as the world falls away.
Written By Jason Wright
August 28, 2002
For Dug “the great white demon” –
& in memory of the hospital woman.
