Corner Pocket

We are the rules
and we are not the rules
am I supposed to be brave now?
one of these will be the
last jokes told
last cue cracked under
beer-stained lights
beer-stained field of felt
at play
invoking our ancestors in
the low-speak
with widening hearts racing
up in that green canopy
on feathered feet
young faded gods in
their finest rust
my milk bones steel against
this unnatural crying gulp
echo in the stone well of
my underground love
you have your path
I have mine
rules of a world meant
for crushing
damned fools for trying
a hundred years to
get it right.

TA