This poem is taken from PN Review 43, Volume 11 Number 5, May - June 1985.
Snooker Players
They whistle the fine smoke
Of blue dust from the cue,
Suave as gunslingers, never
Twitching one muscle too few.
At ease, holstering their thumbs
In trimmest waistcoats, they await
Their opponent's slip, the easiest
Of shots miscalculated.
Their sleek heads shine, spangled
...
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