Eight-Ball

Max observes the woman at the bar,
drunk and stumbling.

Her criticizes her makeup: 

        "Excessive".

Her outfit: 

        "tasteless".

Her bra: 

        "too tight".

She flirts with the bartender.
It distracts Max's game.

"Don't you think that's sad?"
he remarks, 

missing the side pocket.

"Look at her!"

Max is referring to her size.

She's a considerable woman
wrapped in glitter-encrusted leggings
and a low-cut blouse 

which scarcely contains
her enormous breasts.

The blouse is too short to cover
the expanse of her midriff.

A belly ring jingles when she laughs.

"It's disgusting, " Max protests.
"No one wants to look at that."

He looks at it.
He cannot stop looking.

I nearly sink the eight ball, corner pocket, 

leaving Max an easy,
cross-table finisher.

A handsome couple enters.

They order drinks, 

scout a booth near the jukebox,
quietly groom themselves.

She adjusts her off-shoulder sweater
while laboring over song selection.

He picks lint from his gaberdine jacket.

She touches her makeup 

with a pocket mirror,
sips her beer as if it were coffee.

They inhabit an aching self-awareness,
enduring the eyes of the room upon them,
discriminating eyes,
raw and envious.

"I like the big one," I say to Max

as he draws the cue 

for his shot.