Poem about Old People playing shuffle board? (1 Viewer)

I'm looking for the title of a poem Bukowski wrote about the subject in this thread. I can't remember much else about it except that Bukowski was depressed as he watched old people play what I think was shuffle board. It stuck out for me when I read it ten years ago and I'm trying to find it to read it again but can't remember the title or which book it was in.

The poem could be : there's a poet on every barstool, written circa 1988
It appeared in The Flash of Lightning Behind the Mountain pg 274
Also appeared with an alternate title, in a magazine - Stance - No. 5 - Page 41 - 1988
There's A Poet On Every Barstool And Not Only That, They're All Geniuses

could also be:

the girls we followed home
Betting on the Muse pg 277

the girls we followed home are
now the bag ladies,
or one of them is that white-haired
old crone who
whacked you with her
the girls we once followed home
sit on bedpans in nursing
play shuffleboard at the public
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Thanks black swan, but neither is the one I'm talking about. Both great poems though. The playing of the shuffleboard was more of the main focus in the one I'm looking for and at the time I seem to remember getting the feeling of the mediocrity of life. As what the fuck is it all for if we're just going to end up being shuffleboard playing old folk. It must not be considered one of his better ones because I can't find it anywhere.
Are you sure that the old people were playing shuffleboard and not checkers?

What's The Use Of A Title?

They don't make it
the beautiful die in flame-
suicide pills, rat poison, rope what-
they rip their arms off,
throw themselves out of windows,
they pull their eyes out of the sockets,
reject love
reject hate
reject, reject.

they don't make it
the beautiful can't endure,
they are butterflies
they are doves
they are sparrows,
they don't make it.

one tall shot of flame
while the old men play checkers in the park
one flame, one good flame
while the old men play checkers in the park
in the sun.

the beautiful are found in the edge of a room
crumpled into spiders and needles and silence
and we can never understand why they
left, they were so

they don't make it,
the beautiful die young
and leave the ugly to their ugly lives.

lovely and brilliant: life and suicide and death
as the old men play checkers in the sun
in the park.

from Burning in Water Drowning in Flame, p. 183.

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