The pool table is an egg-bound hen
in her final stages. Two stripes (mine)
and the eight. A pair of tasseled boat shoes,
tan, sans socks, waits its turn and the nine
bounces out the corner. Tassels shoots, I lose
and, like my atrophy is muscle, bend

my cue. A gorilla stands atop jagged scaffolding
and hurls barrels that may be empty
(but with that momentum!) hoping to catch
me stuck on a ladder. My baby's
up there, love a my life. To watch
and stand by is something I will not be doing.

Over air hockey, we talk the politic national,
my Galaga prowess, the way she looks
always to her left when she lies, not her right
as maybe people usually do. She scores, sends hooks
from her fingertips into my sides
and yanks me across the windy table like a professional.