eight

let me withdraw
with the heavy but conspicuous
slide of a worn pool ball, number 8
tapped with endless regret by a loose
sardonic cue into a shallow pocket
where i am allowed to grow more forbidden
more avoided.

my black and white polish will begin
to saturate as a million fights
and drunken swings are thrown
over me. one day, taken unwillingly
by a callous hand, i will be cracked
in dreary frustration against the wall.

my waiting planet will explode into
orbits of destruction, till finally
my inky fragments are smeared
over a newspaper recounting it all.
then you will never be able to forget;
the story may even be 8 whole pages