shot glass
Issue # 8 September 2012
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Roger Singer

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The Place

The night devils me, sending angels
into hiding, their wings folded
like Chinese curtains.

Pool hall lights beckon the eyes, capturing the soul
into smoky veils where pale thoughts
become narrowed beneath a broken clock;
painted windows block out day.

Men absent of god and fear, strike the chalk
and then lean into shadows, their faces
half blanketed by corners.

There is destiny here. A path with an end
where ice cubes rattle and lazy air drifts down
from a fan as voices slip the hours
among empty pockets.