Slate

Darts thud limply to the board -
Newton tugs, but still the
  slight score remains.
Lightly touch the pins,
  fall out
  to hand three missiles over to
the serious one.

Straight, embedded true and firm.
Were there vessels buried deep they
would now gush.
Ebullient, tug and twist around
  the blades score marks to
  the white-streaked
slate.

Dog-ends' symbiotic with the dregs;
Abandoned beer sizzles, swallows
  and soaks-up ash-tar clouds;
Around, swill around, mix out the
  stamped-out
  sized-down
  crumpled
rounds.
Disinterest remains.
Let him play.

Let the stale puddles catch the
  wall-lit glare.
Let the pool-ball clack engulf the
  jangling ears -
Where earrings are large enough to
  deceive.
He has belief, as dart follows
laugh follows
man.
Follow him on.

Heart pumps beer from stomachs to brains;
Memories suck the alcoholic remains
  in apathetic waves:
Slowly, a round becomes
engaged.
Blunted darts bounce from the board
  until no score remains.
The slate is
even grey.