Flashback To A Game Of Pool In Atlanta

I shot a game of eight ball once
At Bimbo’s Beer Joint in Atlanta,
Broke the rack,
Made the fourteen,
I stood in one place
Making each stripe fall,
Turning and shooting,
Turning and shooting
From my hot position,
The cue ball firing out like a rifle shot,
Taking down the enemy
Until only the black ball was left,
People had gathered at the end of the table
As I pointed the barrel at each one,
Then called the pocket by
Silently pointing and taking aim,
The green felt growing tall blades of grass
Waving with full heads of rice
In the sweltering wind,
The ceiling fan overhead
Coming in closer like a Huey
Setting down in the hot LZ,
Smoke from cigarettes
Pinpointing bodies all dressed in green,

“Scratch!” somebody yelled.