The Pool Players

It's not me, I swear!

 

They’re coming in here all the time

Like a wrecking ball of stale pot;

They’re lurching to the backroom

Their sticks squared, their cue balls chalked.

 

I’m wiping down the same table

Keeping an eye, always watchful;

I’m sure they think I won’t see them

As they spit into their own drinks.

 

No gooders in heaven and few

That make it out sober and I

Think, where’s my taxes going to?

Because they’re learning more from me.

 

One time, wasn’t I one of them?

I had smoked the same cigarette,

Enjoyed the same baggy clothing,

Endorsed the act of truancy?

 

They whoop and they hoot, “Bartender!”

And that’s my name so I come, not

Noticing their shiny faces,

                  Noticing the thin breadth in chest.

 

            They ask if I gotta problem,

            I says nothing that I can’t fix;

            They whoop and they hoot, I am out

            Of a job again. Pool Players.

 

            I can’t work with ‘em,

            Can’t work without ‘em.