Eight-Ball

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

He insists her makeup is excessive,

her outfit tasteless,

her bra too tight.

She flirts with the bartender.

It distracts Max from his game.

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

missing the side pocket.

"Look at her!"

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.

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

He picks lint from his gaberdine jacket.

She touches up her lipstick in a pocket mirror,

sips her beer as if it were coffee.

"A solid 10," Max declares.

"I like the big one," I say

as he draws the cue for his shot.