I met him for the first time in an
honest-to-god pool hall,
he came out of the cigarette smoke like Gabriel and took my hand.
That place was filthy and full of fifteen year olds smoking for a quarter,
boys with scars around bright blue eyes,
girls with mean mashed mouths.
I recently saw pictures of used-up teens in peeling dance halls
somewhere in eastern Europe
and I was looking, all of a sudden, back in time to those
humid Georgia nights, that
dingy clapboard building where
big groping hands found too young barely curves
and you found me and where for a minute one night I found god.
We played pool and showed our boobs for booze and
other stupid girl things that didn’t fit right with us and left
a film on our clean skin, a fuzz on our tongues.
At least we didn’t want to look too hard at our own roots.