At the Athletic Club

powder blue cubes of chalk

dust manicured fintertips

that line up shots across the

ancient enameled mahagony.

 

Empty mathematical truths

stretch across groomed carpet

narrowing without ends

into the quiet cush of crystal and

 

the table stomps solid onto

old oak flooring

a reflection

unseen in the haze of dirty windows,

 

a reflection

running out past the security gates

over stained bricks,

and into the vacant streets of a mummified city

where Woodward avenue

runs

five straight

empty lanes

into the river.