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.