Sunday afternoon at The Coniston Hotel

we are the worst pool players in the back room

losing slowly.

Black beer and a pressed-tin ashtray.

Ross is setting up.

It doesn’t take long

mic stand, mic, plug in the guitar.

The narrow toes of his boots

point to a corner and a door.

He starts to play and sing

so anxious his throat looks like the trunk of a figtree.

In the future Ross will sound velvet and relaxed

a sound you can roll with, meant to be.

We haven’t heard that yet, we’re getting this

urgent, intent version

while we lean across tables

clacking bigs and littles.

We should go home

you have to go home sometime.

The later, the worse.

Go home before Ross finishes singing

you don’t want to miss a note, but do it

walk out while the blues fill the room.