A few months ago, while waking up, I somehow saw an image in my head of blue pool chalk on finger tips, casually walking down a wooden walkway. Eventually made this attempt at creating a little scene around it. We frequented an old time 90 year old pool hall for a few years, like a couple times a year, and maybe it emerged out of that from a dream. 

Dusty Blue

A glistening gimlet eye, not shy.

Looking fly, untucked flannel, wood panels.

A ranch hand here to apprise.

The capsize, of a pool ball, far corner pocket.

Insouciant, buzzed focus,

His cousin Ernie can’t relinquish neurosis.

A dim silhouetted figure leaned against an opened door.

In the rear, no need to peer. 

Bone colored diffused daylight. 

By birthright, he might, with no fright.

A hot gravel lot three blocks away.

That’s not to say.

The emerald green cloth awaits. 

Cobalt blue chalk dust flakes.

White ball to striped, Burgundy 15 quakes.

A smooth tap in, his compadre took it on the chin.

The temporary czar of the bar, gold star.

Downs a shot of auburn whiskey.

$20 transferred onto the worn, walnut bar.

No car.

Ranch walks past a leaning broom out into the daylight. 

The residual blue chalk on his fingertips are.

Swaying to and fro. 

Swaying to and fro.

He’s content to be straying. 

A look left, steps over a blotch of pink cotton candy.

He’s feeling randy.

May visit Sandy.

Turns the corner.

To the former.