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Balance in Glass

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ZACHARY CADE Balance in Glass He had aged. Removed, I too had lost the edge of subtle change. One catchlight-less eye, lack of hair, now near bald, highlighted his wintered frame iced in a split-hair concentration. Near-high with confidence, he drove the bar cuestick curtly through Old Gold-yellowed fingers. Searching long green, the back-spun white railed right, hit solid the eight sure into the corner pocket; ending thus another game between us. "Good stroke Mosconi, one beer up. Can you handle another?" "Chump, can you?" he teased. "Rack again. On that homecoming night we never talked Robert Young to Bud. No point juking quarters into glass heads. Coined-lead were words not said and we locked in fragile glass knew each too well to break out for fear of not being able to rack one more balance each could live with. So it is: On Friday nights, we talk, touch, bang pock-worn balls into worn out pockets; drink headless draft beer, careful to drink no more than we can handle for fragile fear of shattering a life-long and nurtured balance, to only rack again. 17 Cade, Zachary. "Balance in Glass." The Cornfield Review Special Issue (1978-1979): 17. Available online at Copyright held by the author.

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