They’re wearing white shirts
and their flowered ties hang
on the brass doorknob.
Uncle Floyd rubs the tip 
of his cue with a square
of blue chalk, and Uncle Al
leans over the table to take
a shot, teeth clenched down
on his cigar. I’m as tall as
the pool table, and I can see
the green felt cloth and the
rolling balls, solid and striped.
Uncle Al wipes the sweat from
his forehead, says: “Now that’s
a real trick shot!” Uncle Floyd
sways to one side, makes
the floor creak. I’m so close
I can see his fingernails are etched
with fine lines, that the cue’s blue
nudge is slipping back and forth
on the bony rack of his fingers.
There’s something tightening, 
gathering itself to strike.
Bam! I see that he has divided
the triangle of heaven so that 
each bright planet will find
a deep pocket and sleep
until the green sky is empty.

© 2006 by Joyce Sutphen. All rights reserved.