FOURTEENTH STREET BLUES
Sammy “Too Smart” curses the nine ball
That rattles in the corner pocket but
Doesn’t fall. With his pockets pulled inside out,
He sits, the glare of the lights burning his eyes,
And his gut aches as he comes down quickly
From the last snort of white chalk.
Tony “Blue Shoes” standing in the shadows,
Pockets a handful of folded Franklins. The
Moochers and insouciant railbirds begin to
Leave. In the almost empty poolroom, Sammy
Climbs on the pool table and lies in the fetal tuck.
His body chills, and the rack boy, in all goodness,
Covers Sammy with a coat.
And “Too Smart” dreams,
Dreams of the “Big Hoorah” without
A bird dog; dreams of the big action when he was
Dead nuts on. When he waved an ivory-ferruled wand
And summoned combinations and two rail bank shots,
And froze whitey to the rail.
Perhaps some dreams are just fantasies. But
That’s not surprising; has the truth ever been
Told in a poolroom? But let him have those dreams.
Why does it matter? There will never be another
“Big Hoorah,” for Sammy now embodies
The solitary figure standing on a street corner
At 3 a.m., during a cold rainstorm,
Waiting for a crosstown bus.
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