In the pool hall
Miles seemed at home.
Beneath the low-hung lamps
he’d line his shots
and move around the tables
with a husky grace.
Nail-bitten pudgy fingers
steady on green felt
he’d stroke the stick—
then click click click—
in our circle he was best.
At the beach
beneath the head we knew—
roundish face and buzz-cut hair
the angle chip in one front tooth—
we saw the whitest body—
skin that only pinked
when tan was what we wanted—
no muscle tone
and type of walk
that lumbered side to side.
Most of us
with clothing shed
around the girls
had self-perceived deficiencies
and somehow Miles
had a knowing
that could pick these out
which he’d expose
in ridicule.
Miles was the champ
at chugging beer
the first or nearly first
to drink down Robitussin
sniff glue try pot
and pop barbiturates.
It was sometime later
that I heard that Miles—
loud and laughing Miles
pool champ and a nemesis—
had died by heroin o.d.
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