after Tomas Tranströmer
I play snooker after a black day
and feel a simple lightness in my arms.
The table is willing. Smooth balls click.
The cue sings, gliding and calm.
A ball rolling into a pocket says joy exists
and a smoker is still puffing in a pub somewhere.
I pull my hand through my wavy snookerhair
and imitate a man who knows all the angles.
I hoist my snookerflag. The signal is:
‘We don’t give in. But want peace.’
The snooker room is a Persian carpet
on line-dancing night. Cowboy boots
hee-hawing, heels hacking right through
but each thread stays immaculate.