{"id":11723,"date":"2012-02-06T22:00:59","date_gmt":"2012-02-07T06:00:59","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/spiken.wpengine.com\/news\/eight-ball-poem-by-claudia-emerson\/"},"modified":"2016-10-23T17:05:37","modified_gmt":"2016-10-24T00:05:37","slug":"eight-ball-poem-by-claudia-emerson","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.kentreporter.com\/life\/eight-ball-poem-by-claudia-emerson\/","title":{"rendered":"Eight Ball | Poem by Claudia Emerson"},"content":{"rendered":"
At a time when a relationship is falling apart, sometimes the news of its failure doesn\u2019t come out of a mouth but from gestures. Claudia Emerson, who lives in Virginia, here captures a telling moment.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
Eight Ball<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/p>\n It was fifty cents a game<\/p>\n<\/p>\n beneath exhausted ceiling fans,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n the smoke\u2019s old spiral. Hooded lights<\/p>\n<\/p>\n burned distant, dull. I was tired, but you<\/p>\n<\/p>\n insisted on one more, so I chalked<\/p>\n<\/p>\n the cue\u2014the bored blue\u2014broke, scratched.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n It was always possible<\/p>\n<\/p>\n for you to run the table, leave me<\/p>\n<\/p>\n nothing. But I recall the easy<\/p>\n<\/p>\n shot you missed, and then the way<\/p>\n<\/p>\n we both studied, circling\u2014keeping<\/p>\n<\/p>\n what you had left me between us.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n<\/p>\n