Not many people know this, but God played pool.
Back in the days before war and extinction
the animals and the stars would watch God
chalk the tip, stroke his cue, sink the black.
All were awed by Him, except for Monkey,
who would try but never beat Him.
Monkey would jump and shout, throw and break
when he lost, God’s humble smiles infuriating more.
On the sixth day they played again, God cleaning up from break.
Monkey jumped and shouted, threw and broke the cue -
God's heart, solid with trust, saw nothing, heard nothing.
Monkey smiled and spat and patted to hide it,
binding it together again with a black hair from his arse,
then handed it back to God and grunted “Re-match.”
He lifted the cue high, the blue of the sky now chalk.
The crowd, bodies and dust, watched as Monkey stood and God
broke, the cue snapped, splintered, shattered again
and cut with laws unto itself eternal hands.
The blood hit the white of the cue ball in tiny red snakes
as the sky’s blue chalk stamped its circle
branding the Monkey’s black hair
that had curled into a dot from shame.
And with a tear, from cut or betrayal no one knew,
God soaked the white ball, its red snakes,
its blue stamp, its black dot, as it rolled
into a pocket, into a socket.
As Monkey laughed, pissing and drinking,
the animals and stars went back to their shadows,
for they all knew God would never play again.
He threw the other balls into the cosmos.
He planted the broken wood into the ground,
rooting with forgotten rules. And he left the table,
pink from wear, to its own devices, blinking.