Pocket Poem Post

Typo walks into Grimalkin’s Pool Hall,
pockets full of rolled papers,
places four quarters in the green
shadow of the felt cushion,
takes a chair, and chalks
up his pencil.

In the cool quiet of the pool room,
Typo scratches again and again,
and down five games
to one,
his mistakes.

Pencil in hand, he
should have kept
to the kitchen,
where the cook laughs
at his filling the pool
table pockets with poems.

In the sun after pool,
Typo pulls from a pocket
one last poem: It’s this one,
and poem in hand, he posts
it to a telephone pole
thick with weathered bills.


  1. Hi Joe:

    I’m nearly empty, word-wise, feeling myself shifting into image-making mode, doing some drawing. It happens to me. I go into hibernation as a writer. I like and am amused by these last two posts of yours, but I’m at a loss for words. This last week I’ve started literally drawing pictures again, and man, how rusty I’ve become in such a short time. My wandering line has led me not to rolling into a corner pocket, or flying out of the bowl in the kitchen as part of “Nein ball”, but into a mouse hole, shivering, the cats Scamble and Cramble chasing me in, clawing at and pulling at the long piece of string tied to my tail.

    Speaking of balls, orbs, or spheres – pinball machines, pool tables and such, lemons and limes, pingpong balls, all the way up to celestial bodies, the planets and their moons – I shared this beautiful short animated film entitled “Spheres” by the great Norman McLaren with Philippa and Brian George not long ago.


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