Billiards before midnight
Andrew Sipos
She dips underneath the bar and pulls up her smooth
black stockings.
Young saxophone players whisper in the corner,
and cigarette smoke slowdances in the dark, sweaty room.
I catch her eye, but her lips hold her drink long and tight.
Her lips, like July raspberries crushed.
I look back at the swept green felt,
and lean against the pool table.
I break.
She glances over her shoulder at the sharp crack.
I smile, and she moves towards the door.
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