Backing up with the times smoke filled the brasserie
Channelled mugs swung to lips with forced delight
At two in the morning popcorn littered the greased floor
Sprawled with stick in hand I was gone
A vagabond in search of a hole
Sharpening the moment blue flakes twirled to the floor
The chalky residue of sobriety long lost
Wooden stool creaked beneath my frame as I rose
Spilling towards the table
Green felt dotted with racing balls
Elevating myself still lower I surveyed my shot
Felt like throwing it all away
No tangible reason except it was the season of loathing
Changes were coming of that I was certain
I threw St. Laurent a look
Snow flew beneath streetlamps
Bending a balanced pose I leaned in
Drew back and let go striking my shot.
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