The game my father taught me

An Ode to the game of pool. It encompassed my life from childhood. I remember using a milk crate to reach the table while my dad watched. He was the greatest man I knew

In smoky rooms where whispers weave,
A green felt world, a place to grieve.
The click of balls, a symphony sweet,
Echoes of laughter, where shadows meet.

Father's hands, rough as the wood,
Guided my stance, he understood.
His voice, a lighthouse, in a tempest's roar,
"Focus, my child, just keep score."

With each sharp break, my spirit soared,
From father to son, the game adored.
But as the years unfurled their tale,
A thief in the night, vision set to pale.

The tapestry dimmed, colors bled grey,
Yet in the darkness, I found my way.
The heart of the game, it beats in my chest,
A dance with the darkness, a relentless quest.

Now I wield my cue with ghostly grace,
Every shot a memory I dare to chase.
Against the giants, though shadows intrude,
In the lull of the night, my courage renewed.

For though the lenses may shift and fade,
In the soul of the player, the light won't trade.
In each crooked shot, there's power untold,
A legend in the making, in this game of old.

So let them speak of vision lost,
For in this game, I've paid no cost.
With every pocketed ball, I renew my vow,
To play and to honor, to live in the now.