Hustler's Ache

The words unfurl like a late night wave
as the tender bumps the eight ball one inch short.
"Just like love," the tender says, and the hustler,
holding the broomstick he used as a snooker cue,
ashes into a plastic beer glass he brought
from the car.

The whole thing was disgusting really: driving from
town to town, from bar to bar, looking for marks.
The hustler'd never enter a place through the front,
leave his fedora on the dashboard and read
the room, the lids half drawn with eyes
underground.

It had been a good summer but he was tired:
nights of heels rubbing against boots he'd taken
off a guy in Amarillo, long nights of standing
leaning
waiting
arms folded
eyes most closed
knowing an opening would come.

He'd swung north after Texas,
his mattress padding the truckbed
as he wormed through the foothills
and crawled into the Sierras
for nights gone cold and snow come early.
As he centered his weight over the cue
ready to kiss the eight ball home
he thought of the stun in the eyes of the tender
the look on hatred leveled him in Amarillo
and the pan of vodka in the cab
that he'd soak his feet in to take away
the aches of the job.