my grandfather converted
it into a pool hall in the 1960s
and it's signature yellows shag
carpeting survived into the new
millennium. I returned to stay
temporarily but have lingered
a year or two longer than we
expected, T-Bone Walker's
bent strings howling out of
a stereo speaker while I pace
around the ancient billiards
table in my underwear, reading
a tabloid from 1973 that was
recently found in the attic, it's
pages crinkling into pieces of
nostalgic dust that I inhale while
it's ghosts pray for the moment
I put on my pants and never return,
leaving them to their after lives in
a museum of the past I don't
need to guard anymore.
|