Unlike most Bills, his name was short
for Billiards. His pappy won him
in a game of pool, the first-born son
of a pregnant pool shark
who never should have played that last game.
And he did mommy and pappy alike proud,
taking up the cue at an age when most children
were still asking questions like, "Why?"
"Fucked-up," is how he'd describe his up-bringing,
but you'd be able to tell it's not a complaint. As
he sights along the angles and runs balls like rain
there is a grin on his face that only pretends
to be a grimace of pain. You leave a little lighter,
considering the situation he's been through
A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years. Try the RANDOM button to sample the sometimes surprising breadth of quality (and in several Novembers, breathtaking quantity as well), or click the "ANY GOOD" label* for those poems labeled with it. On any poem, old or new, feel free to offer your remarkable insight or critical acumen.
*I haven't yet revisited many pockets and stretches of time to appraise and label the "any goods," so some are missing. Please feel free to point out omissions, or - especially - erroneous inclusions, in comments.