The Pool Hall

Walking past the rickety swinging doors, I entered the noisy smoke-filled

Pool hall, practically ignored. A small boy of ten hurrying past broken old men and decaying old ladies with clown painted faces.

Then I waited for the bartender to turn

his back, go to the tap. As he draw’s

the beers I raced to the back where my dad and some other men were gambling, arguing and shooting craps.

Frightened and scared, I rushed to his side and clung to his arm ‘til he turned with a frown and asked me,  “Boy, what’s wrong?” “Nothing  I said, trying not to look scared. Except Mama’s alone and daddy she wants you home.”