You'll always see me playing with the sticks.
Still pushing those balls into those black netted holes.
Every time I play this game I use the same skills taught by the same skilled man who is reading this poem.
At the moment, we'll call him the Earl of Pool.
He's the same guy cheering you on as you sweat when the blank ball is *thisclose* to the #3 ball, who's right next to the 3rd hole.
He's the one reminding you how to hold the stick, while you're holding it backwards straight towards your face.
He's the one who's watching, from heaven, your silent pool game with life, and loving every moment when it's you shooting the hole.
Hi, this is Cheshire! Thanks for reading my first thing every posted on FP. This was a tribute to a dear friend of mine who died yesterday, and a picture going with this poem is posted on my deviantArt page.