drunk and stumbling about the place.
Her criticizes her makeup: "It's excessive"
Her outfit: "tasteless"
Her bra: "too tight".
She flirts with the bartender.
It's distracting 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 at it.
I nearly sink the eight ball,
corner pocket, leaving Max an easy,
cross-table finisher.
A handsome couple enter the bar.
They order drinks, scout a booth near the jukebox,
and 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,
as if they endure the eyes of the room upon them,
discriminating eyes,
raw and envious.
"I like the big one," I say to Max
as her belly jingles
and he draws the cue for his shot.
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