B. Brown

So what, we can't turn the world on its heel
And reenact the starts, the steps and stops,
The puffy breaths outside the bar,
The game of pool (on a snooker table,
Don't get it wrong)
We lost but really won.

(A technicality, but still)
Mine were the winning shots,
The stars aligned,
And if not for our six's kiss
On Lenny's stripe
On a its way to the corner pocket,
The game was ours, a tidy product
Of quite the partnership.

Lenny was an asshole, anyway.
He seemed the petty type
To press us for our spot.
So you, the king, abiding
By your code, abdicated,
Opting to avoid
Any kind of spectacle
(Though you were far better,
And you and I know
What really went down).

So when you leave tomorrow
For a town I've never seen
To hang your thesis show
I hope you come back
And crash on someone's
Slightly too-short couch.
I hope I see you around so we can
Find another bar that has
A party hiding in the background,
Talk about the cigarettes
We should be putting out,
Or something equally profound.