Gwendolyn Revisits The Golden Shovel
...after Gwendolyn Brooks & Terrance Hayes
In this dim-lit hall, gathered close, we
Chalk our cues, faces worn but real.
Eight-ball in the corner, staying cool,
Brothers in the game, that's who we
Are. Schoolyard dreams we long since left,
Traded books for pool cues after school.
In this smoky haven loitering, here we
Find our place, amongst shadows we lurk
Quiet-like. Clock ticking, hour grows late,
But time don't matter much when we
Line up shots, aiming for that strike,
Playing it cool, playing it straight.
'Round the table, huddled close, we
Share our stories, raspy voices sing
Of life's hard knocks, fleeting joy, hidden sin.
In felt-green world, for now we're free, we
Hold on tight, though hope grows thin.
Raise our glasses, cheap whiskey, no gin,
To friendship lasting. Together, we
Make our music, spinning pool hall jazz.
Summer's ending, farewell to June,
We play on still, knowing in short time, we
Might not be here, where dreams can die,
Our final game coming too soon.
Copyright ©
Darius Benhaim
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