The billiards have not moved for years.
Dust clumps on the white ball's beauty spot.
No cannons, no trick shots,
no silk waistcoat straining to contain a paunch,
kissing green baise as its master leans in,
no click of cue head on celluloid.
No schooners leave wet rings on wood,
no lucky heirs conceived between the pockets.
Nobody even knows the rules.
The Winning Game is dust-sheeted.
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