Snookered

Red balls on velvet; that baize malaise,

Constantly altered by the shot he plays.

Traffic-jam colours, the likeness he makes

Between his predicament at Table Zero

And his journey through Yorkshire bypasses;

He can see the trophy in its cabinet, the

Runner-up medal beside... And with a grimace,

Takes another look at the red to left-centre.

No way through; now the groans from above,

Inwardly-held to appease stewards, as he

Rolls up to the ball; Cinderella, in second gear,

And leaves his opponent the call. Taking his

Seat once more, the whispers of doubt,

The tang of sweat on polyester waistcoats

And murmurs of John Virgo and Dennis Taylor on

The audience headsets; silently condemning

His chances, loudly hedging their bets. A

Second nudge has him back at the Strachan

-Star and snookered. Thoughts turn to

Home; a family, a car on the drive after

Winning The Masters, hot meal and warm bath;

And he breaks his cue in half.