The Mentor
Hustling to make a buck, determined to bide
The one who wins another game
My two quarters, next in line, are his.
my time, I chomp on vodka soaked icecubes
and watch the end of another nineball game.
has walked with chalk more years than my age.
He saunters around the table
with a distinction of a man
who has lost and found his wealth more than once.
His cue, an extension of his right arm
is like a staff that Moses once owned
his eyes Eastwood-like and without color
refuses to submit to emotion.
He coaches me without uttering a word of instruction,
teaches me without offering a grade
defeats me without any ovation
and encourages me to dig deeper into my pockets
for yet another lesson.