After my father died I asked his widow
if I could have the 8-ball from his billiards table,
not the mahogany table itself with its green felt bed,
not the pine setter, not his favorite ash cue stick,
and not the entire set of stripes and solids,
just the 8-ball, the sinister black solid
that disqualifies on a scratch, that
anoints a winner by outlasting its comrades,
surviving as the sole soldier on the battlefield.
I considered placing the 8-ball in my father’s coffin,
polished oak with brass accents and white satin bed,
the ball not clutched in his hand, but
tucked in the far left corner pocket
where he would have called it.
Instead I kept the ball, possessive with it
as a portion of my inheritance along with
his car, a journal of his rhymings, the
bent of introspection, and the
ability to laugh and breed laughter even
with infertile subjects.
--rLp--
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