If the object ball
                is going to skid
                over a hard bird dropping
                or crunch over a beetle shuck
                you have to call it.
                "The 2 ball will skate
                over the little puddle
                of water and slue
                to the left before it drops."
                Lui Fang and Lui Pang
                with reflective sunglasses
                deflect pins of sunlight
                into my eyes as I shoot.
                I try to move and they
                move, too. I shoot blindly.
                Of course I mostly miss.
                Lake rules. If they shoot
                and the ball wobbles
                above the pocket
                but doesn't drop
                they just plunk it in
                with their hands.
                I keep playing because this
                is the only table around.
                Pang breaks. Lake rules.
                Smear the balls over the felt
                with your forearms making sure
                a few high balls drop.
                I wonder how the Lui brothers
                grew up, how their mother was,
                what books they read.
                They're too young
                for the Cultural Revolution
                when there was so much cheating
                you couldn't call it that,
                anymore. It must be
                something in the way
                they make a living, all morning,
                every day, glimpsing
                those beautiful eyes
                right before planting their feet
                for the swinging of the sledge
                clipping the hot vein
                for the bleeding hook
                then rowing the dinghy
                so hurriedly across the lake
                as though they were
                the lamb's very essence
                running from the nonsense
                of its own body
                then to the inevitable
                afternoon slab
                just in time for
                the little hearts and kidneys
                to plug a billiard basket.
                I keep playing.
                I'll try a throw shot
                into the corner. The 10 ball
                will trace the old rip
                in the felt and then drop.
                Pang's head appears
                just above the pocket, Fang's
                above his. Now they
                clinch tiny mirrors
                between their teeth as well.
                They've snared a powerful
                shimmer off the lake.
                I move. They move, too.
                I move again. They move, too.
                Then they wag their heads
                like strobes. The felt
                and the air are awash
                with stars. Moving won't help.
                I have to shoot straight
                into the light. I do
                and the ball drops.
                In the last good sun
                they joggle, shooting
                balls off the table,
                running new rips
                into the felt. They maneuver
                the mirrors closer
                and closer. I keep playing,
                shooting now, eyes shut.
                Finally the sun begins to set.
                Quickly the glasses grow
                dull, only a few faint
                reflections of sails,
                gulls and white pines.
                They roll a burlap cover
                over the table and tell me
                to come tomorrow after work
                when the light is best


Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2003.  All Rights Reserved.