Summers were brutal. High desert
be damned, we still shivered under
mountains of blankets in winter
and would have torn off our clothes in summer
but for the skin-searing sun. Clearly,
a beer was in order.
Only thing within 20 miles
was a pool hall combo with enough windows
to stave off the usual dark.
We took a table in the back.
The clink of beer bottles echoed cue tips
tapping balls, that is,
until someone slammed the last one
corner pocket.
Time for another round.
While the barkeep lined ’em up,
the boys turned their eyes on me.
I watched them sweep me head to foot
or foot to head, depending on proclivities,
but all came to rest in predictable places.
They knew intent was shining through,
that love light in their eyes a horse laugh.
I drew myself up.
I stared back.
Not a blow-for-blow detail-including insult.
My look was simple. No.
One by one, the boys backed down.
My Miller High Life was tasting mighty sweet.
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