He doesn’t look directly at the sun just clearing
the tree line, gazing instead down at the lake –
directly into the apex of sunlight, blinded in waves.
After supper they hadn’t driven directly home.
The pool hall they went to required him to drive
perpendicular to the quickest route, turning right.
She watched him angle the cue ball off a bumper,
avoiding the eight-ball, and sinking the fifteen –
the three had been aligned perfectly; scratch-proof.
“Is that how I entered your heart, off the side?”
“No,” he smiled, bringing the fifteen back out,
realigning the balls. Chalking the cue, he whispered,
“You always take the straight shot.”
The cue ball jumped the eight-ball perfectly. “Crack!”
Again, the fifteen dove into the pocket. His hand
came up to his chest, covered his heart.
“Let’s go home,” she whispered as she took the cue,
and carelessly sunk the eight in a far pocket; no angles.
Posted at Poetic Aside (even though I’m not doing the PAD… why not?). The daily prompt was Triangles.